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On 15 April 2010, my new husband and I were due to fly back to Dublin from a brief sojourn in Budapest. That didn’t happen. As with thousands of others, our flight was cancelled due to an episode of force majeure caused by the unpronounceable Eyjafjallajokull volcano in Iceland. At 6pm on Wednesday 21 April we finally returned to Irish soil, but not without enduring some six days of heavy Googling for spaces on trains, busses or ferries and a good 44 hours on the road. Here is how we got home courtesy of the lovely people of Eurolines.
Thursday 15 April 2010: Arrive at Budapest Airport to find that Aer Lingus flight EI 679 has been cancelled. Having been in a virtual news vacuum, we have no idea why. The woman at the desk tells us the next Aer Lingus flight is a week away. We cancel and head to the Malev desk where one woman is sitting behind the counter dealing with a growing queue of stranded passengers. A man in the line is whingeing about ‘only needing to pay for excess baggage’. He’s not even flying Malev, but is rushed to the front of the line and accompanied by another staff member to his flight. She laments that he should have arrived on time and observed the baggage restrictions. He appears to have little concern for those of us who have already been in the line, and should be ahead of him, for some time. The Jewish lady (this is how she identified herself) behind us in the line tells us all about her day spent in Budapest…we’ve already been there three days and seen everything she talks about. She is just passing through. The young blonde in front of us is trying to get to Helsinki. She makes the last flight, but is confused by the mixed messages her airline is sending. We get to the front of the line and I’m about to burst a blood vessel due to stress. The girl at the desk says there’s a flight to Berlin that will close in 15 minutes, in that time we’d have to get to the gate in Terminal A, we’re currently in Terminal B. We decline and thank her. She’s stressed, we’re stressed, but she did her best.
We take a taxi to the train station to see if there may be a way out from there. It’s now raining. The woman at the station’s travel desk says there’s a train to Munich, but she can’t check us in at that time. The train isn’t scheduled to leave for another two and a half hours, so we’re not sure why we couldn’t be checked in. The woman is clearly sweating and struggling with her English. She too tries. There are many other people stranded at the station. We decide to try and find a hotel as it’s getting late, and no one gets anywhere when they’re too stressed to think straight. We wander over to the Best Western Hungaria and check in. Emmet and I leave Mum and Eileen to rest and head back to the information desk at the train station to see if anything is available tomorrow. There are some trains leaving for Germany, but most have upwards of four changes. I can’t justify that with Mum and Eileen and their bags. Running between connections is not a goer. We head over to MacDonald’s to use their free wifi. Still nothing. Maybe the bus? A couple of Quarter Pounders later and we head back to the room for a night of highly disrupted sleep.
Friday 16 April 2010: Awake from 5am. I try to take a shower quietly so as not to wake Emmet, but I manage to dislocate the shower head and it crashes into the bath. I eventually get my shower, but now Emmet is awake. We ponder what to do before collecting the ladies for breakfast. They too have been up since the crack of dawn, if not before. We decide that it’s probably best to have the day free for finding a route out and book an extra night at the Hungaria. Emmet and I take the Metro to the bus station, where the Eurolines girl is able to offer us four tickets to Amsterdam leaving the following afternoon. Nothing else is available for days. From what we can see, no additional services have been scheduled as yet. We take the four tickets to Amsterdam, which will see us arrive some 22 hours later, on Sunday afternoon. The challenge is now to see whether we can get Mum and Eileen to Paris to connect with their Trafalgar tour, which is due to leave London on Sunday. They won’t make London, but Paris is a chance. We go back to the hotel, but not before making an emergency stop for clean undies and socks, and tell the ladies we have a way out. Emmet is all cuddles and moral support as I try desperately to find a way to get from Amsterdam to Paris on Sunday evening. I manage to get half way through a booking with Thalys, the high-speed train linking the two cities. The hotel’s internet browser shuts down halfway through. It’s available, and I need to book the seats. My Mum needs to get to see Venice. We head to the train station to look for an internet cafe. It’s seedy. It doesn’t work out – for the better in the long run as who knows how secure those computers were! The four of us walk into town, to three travel agents, none of whom can help us. Two don’t do train tickets. One can’t sell us a ticket for a journey beginning and ending outside of the state. We go to a second internet cafe where, finally, the ticket is booked! And printed on a printer that allegedly hasn’t worked for days. A sigh of relief. At least the ladies get to their tour. As for Emmet and me? We book a hotel in Amsterdam, knowing full well we’re going to need somewhere to lie down after 22 hours on a bus.
Saturday 17 April 2010: Packed, checked out and with a backpack full of ham and cheese bread rolls, apples and water we board the Eurolines bus and wave goodbye to Budapest. Being on the bus is somewhat of a relief, but I’m already worried about the next leg for Emmet and me. I’m also concerned that we haven’t been able to print out the tickets Mum and Eileen need to take their train. We watch as the scenery changes around us between Hungary and Austria. I enjoy the site of wind farms along the way. To me they’re like dancers. In Austria we stop in Vienna. The bus station is packed. There are people wanting desperately to get on a bus and go just about anywhere, but preferably London. A strange fellow gets off our bus and onto one going to London. He seems to have been confused in Budapest and boarded the wrong bus. He had insisted on putting his seat right back into Eileen’s lap so we were glad to see him go. Whether he found his bus, I don’t know. The fumes in the bus station gave Emmet a headache. I was already popping pills trying to avoid a migraine. Drive on, driver.
Sunday 18 April 2010: Where are we? What time is it? Is it Euros here? Overnight we experience Europe via its truckstop restaurants and toilets. There are some very clean ones, let me tell you. There are also some in need of a good clean. Fortunately I picked up some wet wipes before we left Budapest. We stop on the border between Austria and Germany and hand our passports over to the immigration patrol. Our bus is cleared, but the one in front is not. Four passengers are hauled off into a small bungalow beside the motorway. The fellow is handcuffed, but still allowed to stand in the doorway for a cigarette. He is accompanied by three young women. One is pregnant. There are dramatic stories being told. I cannot hear them, but I can see arms flailing and desperate gestures. We drive on.
Following a number of power naps and constant readjustments in seating positions we eventually reach Amsterdam, where the weather is glorious. We take the train into the city proper and leave the ladies with the bags while Emmet and I run over to the library. It is the most spectacular library I have ever seen, and features some 200+ computers for use by patrons, free of charge! We log on and print off the tickets for Mum and Eileen. It’s sitting here I realise how smelly I am from spending 22 hours on a badly air-conditioned bus. I desperately need a shower. My hair feels horrible and my face is covered with a thin layer of grease. We run back to the train station and get the ladies in a taxi to the airport – the trains aren’t running from the central station today, as there’s track work taking place. They go. They text from the station. They make their connection.
Emmet and I get lost. The free map from the tourist information lady is close to useless as only random streets are named. We walk through the red light district, on the opposite side of town from where we should be. Emmet doesn’t like it. He encourages me not to look left and right. His head is down and his eyes focused forward. I look up as I hear tapping on one of the many windows lining the street. I see two women standing in adjacent windows. One is in worse physical shape than I am, falling out of the skimpy bikini she is ‘wearing’. The other looks as though she is well and truly dependent on some sort of illegal injection. She does not look well, thin and a pale yellow colour not caused by the window’s lighting. She has dark circles under her eyes and her hair is thin. I only saw her for a few seconds, but her ghostly image has stuck in my mind. We walk on. Eventually finding another library where we’re pointed back in the right direction.
Sweet relief when we get back to the hotel, even though the room has a ceiling too low to allow Mister Emmet to stand upright. We shower. We’re clean. We dress in the clothes we bought in Budapest – they are all we have that is clean – and head out to find a proper meal, one not involving ham and cheese bread rolls, or takeaway suitable for in-transit consumption. And that night, we sleep.
Finally! And what a way to send off 2009 and ring in 2010! Hooray for snow! Too many exclamation marks, I know, but I am Australian after all!
Glasgow, the less pretty daughter of Scotland actually has more to show for itself than meets the eye. While as a tourist you may not be immediately hit by its beauty, Glasgow still has plenty to offer the worldly traveller. Although initially reserved about visiting Scotland’s largest city – it’s somewhat unfair reputation preceding – I was pleasantly surprised.
Our gracious hosts for our flying visit took us on a whirlwind tour that included walks through the University precinct, through green spaces turning brown in anticipation of winter, and to see some of the city’s architectural sites. As well as, given the weather was not altogether suitable for walking, a drive to see some hairy cows and the ‘beach’.
The West End of Glasgow is lovely. It features the University of Glasgow, Kelvingrove Park and a major art gallery and museum. Very pleasant for the cultured amongst us. In truth, it just happened to be where our hosts were residing so our starting and end point during our stay.
We were also introduced to the architectural and design talents of of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, an exponent of Art Nouveau and probably lover of tea, for he designed the interior of the Willow Tearooms, one of Miss Cranston’s Tearooms.
A short drive from Glasgow and you’re at the beach, or what some Scots might consider a beach. We were treated to a drive through pouring rain, to Largs, a seaside town near deserted this time of year, or so we thought. Upon entry of Amici Italian restaurant we discovered the entire population of Largs out of the rain enjoying a hearty lunch. While through the windows a hurricane appeared to be passing us over, inside the piano man played standards and entertained the kiddies. What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon in Scotland.
I can only then assume that the city’s lesser status on an international scale is due to the blue collar nature of its more recent history. Glasow is known for its crime and apparently, it’s unhealthy lifestyle. But when you think about it, Edinburgh, London and any other major city for that matter, has it’s issues. Glasgow has made efforts to clean itself up, however, again as with anywhere, some places will never feature in the top ten of tourist destinations within Glasgow. That said, there is really no reason not to include Glasgow on your list of places to see while in Scotland, especially given the highly convenient timetable of rail services between it and Edinburgh. Fifty minutes and you’re in a whole other part of Scotland. Just don’t go asking for a Glaswegian kiss!
Please come along and support local crafts people, drink awesome coffee, and buy a few of my cards…think of your granny, when was the last time you spoke with her…she’d appreciate a nicely composed card in the post wouldn’t she???
So, Emmet and I spent the day at12 Newmarket Street, Dublin, otherwise known as the Dublin Food Coop, but on the first Sunday of every month becomes the Crafty Market. It was an interesting experience, one that I found surprisingly stressful, but then, that’s me. What was stressing me out was the fact that I don’t usually spruik my wares quite so publicly, it has always been within the comfort of my own family, friends and acquaintances, but this was about as public as you get. Not only that, but there were a couple of other photographers there too, which meant comparisons would be made…at least that’s what my paranoid little mind was telling me. What concerned me most was that by half way through the day we hadn’t made one sale. I had, however, received a number of genuine compliments, but then compliments don’t pay the market stall rent.
Emmet, of course, was cool, calm and collected and enjoyed engaging the passers by. He made the first sale while I was away from the table taking a break and having a wander around. That made me feel a little better. One buy. I knew we had to sell ten in order to cover the rent of the stall, which at 30 Euros for the day was pretty reasonable. In the end we sold five cards, one at a time, in the final few hours of the day. I walked away with 17.50 Euro, which left me a little out of pocket, but the experience (and Luca’s coffee) was worth the effort.
What was disappointing though, was the lack of turn out. Most of the people there were ether friends and family or passing tourists. There could have been more of the tourists, that’s for sure, and probably a marketing issue – my recommendation would be talking with the bus company that does the tours of the city as they stop just around the corner at St Patrick’s Cathedral, I think they also stop at Christchurch, which is not too far either. Sadly, though, there isn’t much enthusiasm from the general public for markets like these, or, arguably, markets in general. To me this is a bit strange, but then I like nothing better than being able to purchase directly from the producer, be they a grower, a farmer or a knitter. But then, it may all be in the timing. The market is on a Sunday, and as Emmet and I discovered, Dublin city is a virtual desert on a Sunday morning but for the wandering tourists, luggage, camera or unfolded map in hand. Sunday morning in Dublin is, logically, either time for recovery from the night (or nights) before, or time to visit God’s house. Again, though, superb marketing opportunities – offer local churchgoers a flier and entice those with a cloudy head with what I maintain is Dublin’s best coffee from Luca’s Freedom Cafe. Thankfully, Birdy and Brian came out to say hello, which we appreciated. I think seeing some familiar faces brightened us both up after we’d tried so hard to generate interest with text messages, Facebook posts and random poster hangings.
So, the moral of this story is that Dublin’s crafties need you, yes you, not ‘you’ maybe someone else will do it, it’ll be okay I don’t have to go and help or contribute…no, you means you.You can support local industry, local crafts people, who in turn support local suppliers, or try to find supplies at a cheap cost so you don’t have to spend too much helping them out. No kudos for blaming the recession, the recession won’t stop you from buying a pint, so why not put that pint’s worth of Euros into something more tangible, something handmade, homemade, original, one of a kind, something you can take home with you that won’t give you a headache in the morning.
That said, will I go back for another try? Maybe. We shall see. I think the interest is actually building and it would be good to be part of something positive and uplifting in Dublin when much of the atmosphere is quite dreary, because of the recession and also because, and I genuinely believe this, the weather. Maybe next time I will see if I can take a basket of brightly coloured cupcakes, as if one thing is guaranteed to sell at the crafty market, or indeed any market, it’s food!
If anyone is interested in some cards, I will be updating my Facebook group with what I have in stock and probably also put up a blog, but you can email me at stevie@stephaniefargher.com, and also take a look at my website. I can do them for 3.50 Euro or 4.50 AUD each, or five for 15 Euro or 20 AUD (sorry Aussies, but the dollar is worth bugger all over here these days, which sucks cos the buying power back home is awesome comparably!) + postage).
