C&O Canal Towpath: Spring (84 – 91)

Mile Marker 84

Early spring found me beginning at mile marker 84, just downstream from Dam Number 4. It had been a particularly tiring week and the current of the Potomac, so short a distance from the dam, was very swift making a languid pace seem almost lazy. The first signs of spring were beginning to appear: bluets and dandelions had begun to poke through in grassy areas. I watched an interesting insect, with a body of brick red, matching my speed a few feet in ahead. There is an instinct among humans to view most insects as nuisances or threats. I watched for a few brief seconds before it veered away from the path. Although yet another sign of spring, since the lives of most insects are measured in days, I realize that it would not live to see the autumn. It is an odd perspective to consider; human lives, for millennia, have been calculated on the cycle of seasons. It is difficult to imagine a creature whose existence will not allow for the comparison of one season to the next.

Dam Number 4 (84.6)

Dam Number 4

Constructed in 1836, the masonry Dam Number 4 spans the Potomac creating a large pool of water upstream known as Big Slackwater, which is popular for fishing and boating. On the West Virginia side of the dam is a power plant built in the early twentieth century. The water rushing over the dam, creates the downstream inundation, and a tremendous roar making the dam heard before seen. I stood and pondered a child’s blue ball, caught in the torrent of water rushing over the dam, bobbing up and down. There seemed to be no hope of escape for it. How long would it take for its release?

A small parking lot is located at the dam, and the road that leads to it, appropriately named Dam Road Number 4, runs parallel to the canal and towpath for about a mile and a half. Small houses and trailers dot the road, and people are busy with their Saturday chores. Across the river, magnificent sheer cliffs line the West Virginia side.

At Weir Inlet, the canal disappears for 3.1 miles. Thus, the creation of the Slackwater, which is so calm that it allowed boats to navigate the river. The towpath continued so that mules continued the journey. But it was a difficult journey because of the high cliffs that lined both sides of the river. It is here that four teenagers join the trail about a hundred yards in front of me, from a boat ramp parking lot, walking a small chihuahua. The lone boy in the group, estimated to be about 12 or 13, was throwing rocks trying to land them into the narrow Guard Lock 4, as boys that age are wont to do.

As I approached mile marker 86, my days of restaurant work came back to me. The number 86, often used as a verb, is shorthand for something that was no longer available on the menu. Early in my foodservice career, I asked about the origins of the term, to which the replies were nothing more than blank stares, an indication of my lack of expertise and knowledge, before returning to the mad scramble of behind the scenes kitchen work in a busy restaurant. One popular theory is that the term might have originated from Chumley’s, a speakeasy in New York City, where bartenders were told to 86 the customers before a raid, meaning to have them exit the establishment at 86 Bedford Street to elude the police.

Just before arriving at the mile marker, I noticed a large piece of Styrofoam laying a few feet from the shoreline. More than likely it had washed up during the past couple of weeks of heavy rains and melting snow. I resolved, as my effort at being a good citizen and steward, to retrieve it on the return trip and dispose it properly. Measuring about four inches by four inches square, and about eighteen inches long, it was obviously not heavy but a little awkward. I felt a bit strange lugging this large piece of Styrofoam back the three-quarters of a mile to the Slackwater Boat Ramp, where restrooms, and presumably trash receptacles, were located.

Juvenile bald eagle

A juvenile eagle skimmed the river nearby. I place the piece of Styrofoam at my feet and fumbled for my camera. What would have been a great photograph, became a mediocre one of the young eagle sitting in a tree on the opposite shoreline. I picked up my piece of refuse and continued, noticing a few paces away the jetsam that had gathered near Weir Inlet: a red soccer ball, another piece of Styrofoam, two plastic water bottles, a yellow plastic canister of motor oil, and a dead catfish. I was not going to wade into the water to retrieve more material but intended that my act was a small token gesture. To my surprise the few people I did pass mentioned nary a word about my strange object. In fact, most did not even speak. Perhaps because I was seen as a strange man carrying something odd.

There were no trash cans at the boat ramp, nor would there be the parking lot at Dam Number 4. On the outward trip, a kingfisher flew overhead; I recognized it more because of sound rather than sight. Carrying my piece of Styrofoam, I again heard the distinctive cry of a kingfisher and caught a glimpse, through the trees, of a slate-blue bird flying along the canal. With some difficulty, I placed the Styrofoam under my left arm, and carried my camera in my right hand, chasing an elusive kingfisher. I watched the flight of the bird and projected a landing perch. Just as I did, I heard the rattled call and saw a bird closer than I expected. What I had assumed was one bird, but was actually at least two, leapfrogging each other along the course of the canal. Again, I sat my refuse in the middle of the path, along with my backpack, to signal my return, to set off for what turned out to be more mediocre photographs.

Returning to my car, finding no trashcans or recycling bins, I placed the piece of Styrofoam I carried for about 1.7 miles in the back of my car for the 45-mile journey back home. There was a subtle piscatory smell emanated from the back of my car as I drove home, where I would deposit the refuge in my recycling cart for a Tuesday morning pickup. For some reason, the sanitation truck did not come on its appointed day; arriving home from work Tuesday evening I noticed the recycling bin with the bulky Styrofoam still preventing the lid from closing completely. “No good deed…,” I thought. Good news, however, recycling was collected the following day.

Virginia Bluebells

In the intervening two weeks since I was last on the trail, many things have changed. After many false starts, spring appears to have finally sprung; trees are budding, there are several boaters and fishers on Slackwater, and it has become imperative to dodge cyclists on the trail. At home, we have adopted three kittens. As I walk I have daydream about Pip’s crystal blue eyes and her tiny brown paws that resemble miniature versions of bear paws. I see Lucie and Coco’s doleful faces looking at me with trepidation and trust.

Shooting Stars

For about a mile and a half, the towpath is a concrete bridge that skirts the shoreline of the Maryland side of the Potomac. My attention is drawn to the newly emerging wildflowers, rather than the birds today. I scan the rugged cliffs and hillsides along the Slackwater; it is nice and rather warm. An informational sign points out that the proximity of the cliffs and the river creates a unique space for wildflowers to prosper. After reading the sign, I looked around to notice that there were plenty of dandelions and violets, but nothing that I would consider particularly rare. Yet, within a quarter of a mile I began to observe several Virginia bluebells. I stopped to watch a bumblebee make its round of newly blooming shooting stars, a white flower with yellow core. When I was a kid, the bumblebee was an object of fear, more menacing than a honeybee. But today, understanding more about the pollination function of bees and the increasing environmental pressures on bees, I find the bumblebee fascinating.

The trail between mile markers 87 and 88

Several people were out, walking and cycling. The concrete bridges are a little intimidating with cyclists because many treat the trail as a racecourse. A couple on foot, approximately my age, become quiet as we approach one another. My suspicion that their discussion is sensitive is confirmed after I pass the two I heard the woman say, “That’s not the kind of stories you tell around young kids…”

McMahon’s Mill (88.1)

McMahon's Mill 

Just upstream from the McMahon’s Mill, three young men, in their early twenties, with a girlfriend along, were using a tree at a fifteen-degree angle to swing out over the river and jump in. Someone had nailed planks to the tree so that it could be easily climbed. The three, two wearing swim trunks while the other was simply donning his Hanes boxer-briefs, were drinking Rolling Rock and taunting each other. Two cyclists had stopped to watch, and despite the attempts to engage with questions like, “Is it cold?” they were largely ignored. Instead, as I passed, the young men were conversing about techniques and methods. One had decided to climb higher so that he could jump directly from a tree branch in to the Potomac. He dropped his half drank beer to his friend, extolling him not to waste it. His friend advised, “Hold your hands out, after you jump,” presumably preventing him from hitting the bottom too hard. Seconds before he released, his friend retorted, “I know how to f***ing jump.” On my return trip, not too far from the tree where the young men were jumping, four young women, in swimsuits, were sitting on the edge of a concrete embankment, sunbathing, chatting, and simultaneously absorbed with their phones. I caught up with the three young men later, having a good time, perhaps aided by the Rolling Rock, engaged in lively banter. The young woman with them tried desperately, but unsuccessfully, to secure the attention of her boyfriend as they neared the parking lot. 

The following week, in late April, I returned to find that the rains of the previous few days, along with snow flurries, has resulted in a flooded towpath. A layer of mud covered much of the path, some of the path and concrete had been washed away, trunks and large branches had been washed ashore. I abandoned my walk after about half a mile when I discovered that water still covered a substantial portion of the trail. Instead, I opted for a walk on the surrounding backroads near McMahon’s Mill (see below).

Locks 41 and 42 (89.9)

Remnants of Lock 41

Because of travel and weather, it was mid-June before I returned to McMahon’s Mill. Despite it being several weeks later, the trail had not improved much. It was a rainy spring; the path was muddy, and water had recently covered the path. Yet, it was a little more passable that it was several weeks before. Nevertheless, a light rain, combined with the mud made footing walking difficult, slippery and slow. I calculated that if I could make it to Locks 41 and 42, where the canal resumes shortly before mile maker 89, then the path would be better. My calculation was correct; however, what I did not account for was the amount of water that laid stagnant in the canal. In some places, it reminded me of the swamps of Georgia and Northern Florida.

Downed tree (June 2018)

Shortly after gaining the high ground alongside the two locks that I found that a gate was across the path with a sign indicating the path was closed because of dangerous conditions. There was no such sign preventing people going upstream from McMahon’s Mill. I decided to press on, because at that point I was not in the restricted zone. Soon I met a group of Boy Scouts cycling the opposite way. I wondered how they would fare through the mud. No doubt, at least some of them wondered how I would fare through the swamp.  Soon, despite having some repellent on, mosquitoes were not dissuaded. As I walked through swarms of the pests, I could feel tiny collisions on my bare arms and legs. The further I walked, the more mosquitoes I found lighting on me. I saw a male Baltimore Orioles on a branch just a few feet in front of me. I slowed down to take my camera out, and instantly two mosquitoes were on my hand. To stand and gaze at anything was to be a stationary target for hordes of mosquitoes. The best thing to do was to keep moving, at a good pace, to avoid as many mosquitoes as possible. Nevertheless, an observer might have thought I was a crazy man, flailing his arms around as I moved quickly through the two miles past Locks 41 and 42. When I reached the Opequon Junction Campsite I turned around and repeated the gauntlet in the opposite direction. I had visions of having dinner that night with friends, constantly scratching a mass of mosquito bites on my arms and neck. I was about twenty-four hours too early in my calculation, the itching started the next afternoon
.

Again, the path downstream of Lock 42 was muddy, but with significantly fewer mosquitoes. I decided that perhaps for the summer season I should concentrate on a different part of the trail. I would return to the 90s when autumn arrived, and insects were less of a nuisance.

Accessing the Trail

Log cabin on Dam Number 4 Road

Dam Number 4 Road has many springhouses and rock fences along the way. In Downsville, there is a general store and old school. (road becomes Downsville Pike MD632)

Avis Mill Road, which confusingly leads to McMahon Mill, parallels the Downey Branch Creek from Dellinger Road to the river. Several bluebirds and swallows flitted around open fields of Dellinger Road

Walking along Dellinger Road, I contemplated that I could be a person of concern for many as I wandered these roads. I anticipate questions, such as “What are you doing here?” But no questions ever come. For the most part, people drive by, give me plenty of room to walk on the road, and a polite wave. I assiduously wave back, calculating that it would ease the minds of those driving by. One of my colleagues had just returned from Scotland and we had a brief conversation about the “right to roam,” a concept whereby people are legally able to trek and hike on public or private lands for exercise and leisure. This is an anathema to most Americans; the number of “no trespassing” signs posted around the path, as well as across the United States, is a sign of the emphasis on the place on property and, ostensibly, privacy. As a curious walker, I like the idea of a right to roam; however, while in Scotland it is difficult to acclimatize myself to the idea. I walk across fields wondering if someone will show up to ask me to leave, or worse call the police. 

Rock Fence on Dam Number 4 Road

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 3: Supply Canal)

The Supply Canal empties into the Royal Canal near
Harbour Road in Mullingar

At the northern tip of the arc of the canal that circles Mullingar, there is a small tributary canal that feeds the Royal Canal from Lough Owel. The Supply Canal is about half the width of the Royal Canal and originates from Lough Owel, a lake approximately 3.5 miles long and 2 miles wide. The trail is not particularly well publicized, even though it is a beautiful walk and a couple of interesting historical sites along the way.

If you let the threat of rain keep you from accomplishing your tasks, you will never get anything done in Ireland. The night before, a storm including 60-mile-per-hour winds lashed the midlands. The next morning, the winds remained brisk and dark gray clouds rushed across the sky. But it was my last day in Ireland – so I go. Debris from the high winds the night before litter the trail with leaves and branches. The storm had brought in a noticeable drop in the temperature, which was a relief to many of the locals. While many enjoy the warm weather, their houses and businesses are not built for the heat. Walking to the canal, there was the faint smell of peat burning to warm nearby houses; a smell of which I have grown fond. The canals seemed fuller and much of the pollen and debris, which had accumulated on the top of the water over the past few days, had disappeared.

Less than a mile north of the Royal Canal, the Supply Canal crosses Castlepollard Road, a busy thoroughfare with no caution lights to warn traffic about pedestrians. A small sign indicated that there is a Famine Cemetery close at hand. About 100 meters further on, the cemetery sits on the edge of an industrial park. While you cannot see the buildings from the warehouses and factories because of the trees, the associated noise let you know that you are not in a remote area. A small stone gate, with a cross atop, indicates the location of the cemetery. Renderings of the mid-nineteenth century Great Irish Famine are common when traveling throughout Ireland; there are a number of monuments and memorials to those who died. But to see something that is tangible from that period is rare.

Entrance gate to the Famine Cemetery

Approximately one million people, of a population of about 6.5 million, starved during An Gorta Mór. Another 1.5-2 million people emigrated during the late 1840s. While, beginning in 1845, a blight largely destroyed the entire potato crop, the primary staple for most Irish peasants, the island continued to export food. Charles Trevelyan, the official in charge of the British response to the famine, did not want to provide assistance or food relief because he feared that it would adversely affect the natural order of markets. Therefore, landlords in Ireland, primarily British, could make more money selling their crops overseas than providing it to the local Irish population. As a result, peasants in Ireland were not protected against the ravages of famine and starvation. The population of Ireland dropped by fifty percent over the course of the nineteenth century.

Interior of the Famine Cemetery

County Meath was hit hard, but its situation was not as desperate as some of the counties further west. In November 1845, in the nearby town of Moate, a mass rally of 4,000 people called on the government to provide help and subsistence to help the local population. The plea had no reply. At the Mullingar Union cemetery, other than the stone gate, no contemporary markers can be observed. Two stone monuments have been placed in recent commemoration. One describes the people interred at the cemetery, “buried in piles, including some of the workhouse’s 7,000 dead.” Overgrown with grass and trees, it is difficult to imagine the number of skeletons who lie beneath the earth. What is more, it is impossible to recreate the images and smells of a dying population during the Great Hunger.

Since it was a weekday morning I had the trail, other than several animals, mostly to myself. Swallows frenetically skim the small canal, searching for the insects that invariably live near the water. A few song birds made sure to give me wide latitude. The gathering clouds made me wonder if I would reach the lake dry, or even at all.

Saint Brigid's Well

Within another half mile a sign, just past a fish farm, indicated the location of Saint Brigid’s Well (Tobar Brighde), which has been a place of worship since about 700AD. More than likely, originally it had been a place of worship of the Celtic goddess Brigid. A small well comes above ground and runs less than six feet to a stream, which, in turn, empties into the fish farm and eventually the canal. The site was Christianized and, a Stations of the Cross and small chapel were added in the mid-twentieth century.  A sign tells visitor that “Here our forefathers walking in the footprints of Brigid pondered the suffering and death of Our Saviour.” I contemplate that for a few minutes and wonder about the contemplations of those before the arrival of Christianity. What was their hopes and fears? We are likely never to know. I took shelter in the open chapel at the well for a few minutes as a light, but persistent rain shower passed. My presences in the chapel caused much consternation to a pair of swallows who had built a he top corner of the chapel. It is unbelievable that in the space of about ten minutes, the weather completely changed. Blue skies emerged, and I found myself searching the sky for the dark clouds that just a few minutes before were so threatening. The clouds had seemingly vanished.

The rail line between Levington and Cullion 

At this point, the canal went through private property. The canal path ended; but a bike path, running alongside Old Longford Road continued toward the lake. One old cedar tree, on the edge of a field, frown under the pressure of the high winds. Perhaps it is not the rain I should be worried about, I thought, but the possibility of falling limbs. Just before crossing the railroad track, where I briefly observed the Sligo train, a small road to the left, wide enough for only one car begins to parallel the canal again. About a quarter mile from the lake, a stone bridge carries the road across the canal just before it ended at the lake.

Lough Owel

Lough Owel is beautiful and is renown among anglers and birding, provided you have a vessel to set upon the water. Where the canal waters leave the lake, to enter the canal and make its way to Mullingar, is a sailing and boating club. Unlike in the States, there are no other facilities, snack outlets, or gift shops. Recreation is dependent on the individual or a group.

On the return trip, there is a sense of melancholy. It is my last day in Ireland, and Europe, for this year. In just a couple of hours I will board a bus to take me to Dublin Airport. As I walk through the small village of Cullion, whose etymology is suggestive of a contemptible fellow or rascal, where I will cross the railroad tracks and rejoin the canal for the two-mile walk back to Mullingar, I look over into a field where seemingly a million small yellow flowers are blowing in the wind, almost as if they are waving goodbye to me. Already I am thinking of the tasks I must accomplish when I return; the appointments to keep, and the meetings to attend. It is tempting to believe that if we could relocate here, life would be simpler. But I know it is not true. We would trade our current responsibilities and concerns for others. Humans are social creatures, inevitably we develop new connections and new tasks. Nevertheless, it is pleasant to walk these trails, free from our concerns for a few hours; to wander and to explore, to renew ourselves for the journeys to come. 

​

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 2)

On an overcast day, a little over a week later, I returned to Mullingar to explore more of the canal. My ambitions were high that afternoon: to walk from the center of town to a small pub, Mary Lynch’s, approximately seven-and-a-half miles toward the east. The weather was cooler, a pleasant 63°F, and the only demands on my time was the bus schedule to allow me to return to Mullingar at a reasonable time.

The previous week I had walked to where the N52 crossed over the canal and path, approximately a mile-and-a-half out of Mullingar. Thus, tried to move swiftly through the area, and it seemed to take forever to get back to N52. On my previous walk I had been concentrating on birds. This walk I became fascinated with the windflowers and the bees that roamed from flower to flower.

Quickly, it felt as if I were walking in remote areas. Probably because it was a Tuesday afternoon, I saw very few people on the trail. There were several overgrown paths leading from the trail, most were overgrown and appeared not to have been used in quite a while. In Scotland, the right to roam makes it less daunting to explore the odd and intriguing path. The idea is that as long as you are recreating, committing no harm, you can walk virtually anywhere in the wilderness. But this does not apply to Ireland. There are far fewer no trespassing signs, or signs warning to beware of dogs, then in the United States; however, there are some. I overcame my trepidation and took a side path, which was not particularly well marked, up a hill. What did I find at the top of the hill? Nothing more than a field, or perhaps it was a pasture. My curiosity was in unrewarded. Of course, how would it have been rewarded unless I had taken a look?

Marlinstown Bridge

Earlier in the day, at a convenience store in Mullingar I bought a ham sandwich and a bottle of water. The elderly gentleman who sold me the sandwich, said it was a nice day. I retorted it was an excellent day for a walk. A big grin came across his face as he said, “Enjoy the walk, and God bless.” I stopped for my lunch at Marlinstown Bridge, a one-lane bridge in a remote area. Yet, a service truck crossed the bridge and a man and his dog walked by. I wandered to the other side of the bridge and found a trailhead to a wilderness path along the high bank of the canal. A few bug mansions and bee hotels had been built to help promote local biodiversity.

The path opened into a wide valley, where it ran alongside several pastures and farms. I was thinking that I had not seen many aquatic birds along the canal, other than a pair of swans on the west side of Mullingar the week before. Then, within seconds, I spied a grey heron, who did not allow me to get to close to photograph before flying off. Many of the nature signs along the canal touted the multicolored kingfisher as being native, but elusive, to the area. Although I kept looking I was disappointed by not seeing the European cousin to one of my favorite birds. In fact, the crane would be the only aquatic bird I saw during all my walk on the canal.

The N4 highway approached closely, and ran parallel to the path in this area, and it was hard not to be distracted by the noise. I saw another stone marker, which was impossible to read. I noted, however, that today in Ireland every half kilometer is denoted along roads N4 and the stone markers would probably outlast the metal signs that currently gave motorists their whereabouts.

The Downs Bridge

As I approached the Downs Bridge, the path served as a paved one-lane road used by a few houses. At one point, a bush hog mowing the grass along the edge of the road patiently waited for me to pass. I was glad he did. After I passed I heard the mower hit some glass bottles and aluminum cans, the shrapnel would have hurt I am sure. A little bit further, several trucks were repaving the asphalt on the Downs Bridge. An older worker sitting on the back of a truck greeted me. I asked him to confirm that I was the Downs Bridge, which he did. He inquired as to if I were having a good walk but the look on his supervisor's face suggested that we should keep the conversation short.

Here and there houses told stories about their occupants and the land. A white house with yellow trim caught my eye and sparked my imagination. The house had several additions and four rather large pine trees, which looked out of place in the Irish countryside, which were planted a generation ago. The back of the house, typically known as the garden, was full of flower pot and plants. An old sliding board, with faded red paint, was being consumed by grass that had not been mowed in a quite a while, indicating that the children no longer lived there. But a newer, small green table with two chairs overlooked the canal. I imagined an elderly couple taking their afternoon tea or evening drinks while watching wildlife or the cyclists pass.

A hand-cranked drawbridge

Shortly before automobile access to the path ended, I passed a bridge that had an intact hand crank drawbridge that would allow cars to traverse the bridge when down, its current state, and boats to pass when raised. I was mesmerized by this old structure and was thinking about how to describe it. I took several photographs, from different angles, to demonstrate how it worked. In my head, I was imagining a conversation with my dad, trying to explain the design to him, who would have been deeply interested.

Between the Downs and McNeads Bridges, the canal sat high above the valley floor. Several culverts allowed small rivers and streams to pass beneath. Since this section of the canal was completed by 1817, I pondered the work and planning that went into its creation. I am unclear about the conditions under which the canal was built and who did the labor. But It was a reminder that early nineteenth-century canals were a marvel of engineering. I walked between the Royal Canal's successors: to my right was the railroad tracks, which later in the nineteenth century would make the canal obsolete; to my left, the N4 highway that took the modern traveler, whether my bus or car, to destinations throughout the island.

Toward the end of my journey, I realized how glad I was that it was not sunny. Although it was not optimal for beautiful picturesque photographs, it made walking much easier. I was not prone to being too hot or having an Irish sunburn. Besides, the cloud cover did make it easier to photograph some of the wild flowers without shadows. It also made it easier to continue the journey. I arrived at Mary Lynch's pub a full hour and a half before the next bus was scheduled to arrive. I had walked a little over seven miles at that point but did not think that ninety minutes in the pub was a good idea.

A pied wagtail at Lock 25

After a few minutes, I started to slowly walk to the next bridge, another two kilometers further. After a few minutes I resumed my natural pace but was beginning to feel the toll on my feet. When I reached Lock 25 (Loc 25), I decided that it was enough of a walk. My day would end with a total of 9.8 miles.

Mary Lynch's Pub

I returned to the Mary Lynch Pub with about an hour before the bus was set to arrive. I few people were around the bar, and I ordered a celebratory Guinness to pass the time. The bartender, who said she saw me walking earlier, asked me how I enjoyed my walk. I replied that it was a nice day for walking. She gave me a detailed summary and update of the weather, noting that previous week had been too hot for many people. The pub had had several walkers and cyclists who could not cope with the extreme (for Ireland) temperatures.

Mary Lynch's Pub

The bartender told of a woman who, while cycling with her husband the previous weekend, got cramps and light-headed. Her husband gave her a "fiver" and rode his bike home to retrieve the car. An hour and a quarter later he came back. One of the women at the bar comment, "An hour? She needed more than a fiver." The bartender went on to tell me that, "High pressure will be building tomorrow night and will be turi-bill winds. It will blow itself out by Turs-day morning. Sunny weather then, but cooler." Her forecast was pretty much right.

She took care of other guests and nursed my beer. I went out to catch the route 115 bus at 17:52, five minutes early. Even though I knew the stop was near the end if the route and it highly unlikely to be on time. After walking nearly ten miles, I neither wanted to miss an on-time bus nor consider a 7-mile walk back to Mullingar. I have been riding buses in Ireland for over 15 years and feel confident about understanding the nuisances of doing so. But I have to admit, with my feet aching, watching cars zooming by coming home from work, when the bus was twenty minutes late I began to have some doubts and trepidation. But when the bus rounded a bend in the road, thirty-three minutes after its scheduled arrival time I was happy to pay my €4.30 to return to Mullingar.

The Tooth Fairy in Portugal

On the hotel shuttle bus to Dublin Airport there are trips that are beginning and others that are ending. Mine was ending; however, across the aisle from me, sat an Irish family whose trip was just beginning. The father was preoccupied with the latest news on his phone. The mother, even though claiming fatigue, was engaged in a lively conversation with her two daughters, aged five and two. When the mother asked, the five-year-old claimed that she wanted to ride a train when they arrived in Portugal and buy earrings. The mother reminded her that she had ridden a rain before to Croke Park. The daughter then told her to pull up her blouse because, apparently, she was revealing too much. There was an exasperation of a teenager from the mother, who glanced over at her husband still solely focused on his phone. Mom then asked if there was something wrong with her lip and the daughter indicated that she had a loose tooth. "Ah," she replied with an Irish lilt, "does the tooth fairy come to Portugal?" The father did not respond. She gave her daughter a wink, "I will text the tooth fairy the address in Portugal...My goodness ten euros, I don't think so."

Penguins in Mullingar

It was a blustery day in Mullingar and I stepped back inside the hotel to retrieve my trusted Penguins walking hat. It was the kind of day where the wind was blowing and there was just enough rain to be a nuisance, but not really to create any puddles. Walking near the center of town on Austin Friars Street, the primary east-west axis, I was not paying attention to anyone, just lost in my own thoughts. Because I know no one in town, I try to blend into the background and observe. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young man, perhaps in his twenties, walking hand-in-hand with a young woman. As he passed, I heard him say, “ooh…cool hat.” His comment did not immediately register, because I do not expect anyone to talk to me. But after a few seconds, I realized he was talking about my Penguins hat because no one else around was wearing a hat.

Belfast 2018

A vibrant art scene in central Belfast

After deindustrialization, and “The Troubles,” the buildings and businesses of central Belfast bear witness to the recent difficult times. Yet there are signs of revitalization and vitality. The area around the St. Ann’s Cathedral is bustling with inviting restaurants and traditional pubs. Live music emanates from several venues, and I have decided it is a requirement that every street performer must have a version of “Brown Eyed Girl” in their repertoire. As with every city that is recovering, there is an edginess to Belfast. Although the Good Friday Peace Accords were more than two decades ago, signaling an end to the violence between the Catholic and Protestant communities in Belfast and Northern Ireland, some areas of the city exude a mistrust concerning their neighbors.

It is odd to reflect upon how many maps of cities I have in my head. Sometimes I might forget how to get from point A to point B before I return to a city. But when I arrive, I usually figure it out. The pathway and connection between landmarks and streets comes back to me almost instantly. Perhaps most odd is my still emerging knowledge of Belfast. To have an intimate knowledge and understanding of Falls Road and Shankill Road in West Belfast is disorienting. I was in high school during some of the most egregious violence of the Troubles, and while I did not understand the circumstances or implications then, my view of Belfast was that it was a city of violence and danger. In my mind, I saw Belfast and Northern Ireland as a war-torn region, akin to places like Beirut during its civil war.

The gate on Northumberland that each night closes

I have a sense of unease when I walk the streets of Belfast. While visiting other places, like Babelplatz and Potsdammerplatz in Berlin, I understand the horrific atrocities and loss of life that occurred there. But what happened in Belfast was in my near-adult lifetime. The news photographs and footage, I can recall vividly. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, eating breakfast before school, hearing about the death of Bobby Sands during the hunger strike. I would soon be off to college, pursuing a degree in political science, and news was a dissonance about how Western Europe was supposed to operate. Those memories still persist today as I wander the streets of Belfast.

Mural on the Falls Road (Republican) 

Mural on the Shankill Road (Loyalist)

Despite the peace between the communities, West Belfast in many respects remains divided, both literally and figuratively. Murals in the Republican and Loyalist sections, along the Falls Road and the Shankill Road, tell two different stories. It is almost as if there is a belief that the peace is a respite; the old animosities still exist and once again the argument will be had again. The gates on Lanark Way and Northumberland Street still close every night to separate the communities. Houses next to the wall that divides the communities still employ fences to prevent bricks from coming through their windows. Even neighborhood libraries, those bastions of knowledge, understanding and contemplation feel different. There is less than half a mile between Falls Road and Shankill Road branches, but the displays, book suggestions and art reflect the two different communities. One wonders how the communities move on from a lack of violence to real integration of neighborhoods.

Walking the Royal Canal (Part 1)

Yellow Irises along the Royal Canal 

The Royal Canal is a 146-kilometer long canal, constructed between 1790 and 1817, running from Longford to Dublin. Built as competition for the Grand Canal, it was never particularly profitable and largely made redundant with the invention of locomotive transportation in the middle of the nineteenth century. Today, it is a greenway and popular walking and biking trail through the midlands of Ireland. I spent a bank holiday weekend in Mullingar, ostensibly to walk the Old Westmeath Rail Trail; however, after discovering the canal path I became enchanted and abandoned my original plans for an exploration of the canal. Life is often more interesting when you deviate from your plan to find something more interesting. 

On Saturday afternoon, I walked through town, on Pearse Street and Austin Friars Street to the Dublin Bridge that crosses the canal. Travelling east from Mullingar, the canal enters an area where there are not many houses but plenty of people on a warm late Saturday afternoon. I passed a group of five teenagers surreptitiously smoking cigarettes near Piper’s Boreen, a narrow country road. Several young fathers were walking children, many in strollers. A grandfatherly looking gentleman was pushing a little boy in a stroller, who from fifty yards away began to wave at me. I think he want to make sure I saw him and waved back.

Transportation on the canal was officially terminated in 1961; however, restorations, first private groups, then by the government, have allowed for the canal to be used for water recreation. Over the course of the weekend, I saw a handful of fishermen but no boats of any kind. A boat along the far side of the canal looks as if it has not been used in quite a while and given the growth of vegetation in and around the water, nor does it appear that the canal has been transverse recently either.

Although I have walked many trails and canal paths, each one is different. This is especially true on the Royal Canal: There is a sense of adventure when one is visiting for the first time. In Ireland, the birdsongs and flowers are unfamiliar. Iridescent dragonflies are nearly impossible to photograph and, therefore, to identify. An unseen horse neigh in the fields behind the trees; little did I know that there were fields there. On the distant shore, behind some trees, I heard two men talking to each other. The one man, who I had trouble understanding, asked a question to the other to which the reply was, “Huh?” He asked the same question again. This time the reply was, “Aye.” This sequence was repeated, asking two more questions twice, each respectively eliciting the same answer.

Mullingar, a small city of about 20,000 people, is an old market that still thrives today. Walking through town on a weekend evening, the smell of fried fish permeates the town. Nevertheless, I had dinner at a pub where the evening roast was turkey and ham, served over mashed potatoes, and a good helping of broccoli and carrots. Plain and uncomplicated, the dinner was a hearty anecdote to several days of travel and a long walk on the canal. The sun was still shining and most people in town had congregated at a pub outside just down the road. My chosen pub was largely empty, save two other tables: A nearby table with a French-speaking couple and their young adult daughter who thoroughly enjoyed an American-style brownie with ice cream for dessert; and, two drunk Irishmen, whose difference in age suggested that they could be father and son, but given the conversation were probably are not. At one point, the older of the two men, who I judged to be in his seventies, perhaps younger but the tolls of a hard live were showing, got up to pay for another pint and use the facilities. As he walked by my table, he listed and almost fell face-first into my table before recovering his equilibrium. I glanced over to the younger man who jumped up to offer assistance, yelling, “Are you alright there?” I glanced over to the French couple to see if they had a reaction to the display, but they were oblivious, enjoying their dessert. Soon after, a quarrelsome couple from British Columbia came to bar requesting meals that were not hamburgers and not vegetarian.

East of Mullingar

The next day was a beautiful June Sunday morning on a bank holiday weekend bringing many people out on the canal path; however, the further I got from Mullingar, the fewer people I saw. Early on, a man walking two small dogs acknowledged what a beautiful morning it was. Indeed, it was. Later, a man said to me that it was “a lovely day.” I replied that is was beautiful. As we continued to walk past each other, he recounted that it was 23 degrees (73°F). I thought to myself that his comment was a little specific, but I have come to realize that the Irish have a keen sense about the weather.

It is difficult to judge whether one should acknowledge their fellow wayfarers on the trails of Ireland. In the United States it is common, almost expected, to acknowledge someone when meeting on a walking path. The rules in Europe are somewhat different. On the continent, one should all but ignore fellow walkers. In seems that in Ireland that the older the traveler, the more one should acknowledge the person. Thus, the elderly walker should be spoken to first; do not even bothering looking at teenagers. Children are a crapshoot: There reactions will tell if you should offer a greeting.

Likewise, it is difficult to know which side of the path one should walk on and, specifically, how to decide how to pass an oncoming walker. Since Americans drive on the right-hand side of the road, typically when they walk they also inhabit the right side of the path. It would seem to make sense for those places that drive on the left-hand side of the road to do the same thing in reverse. I have come to notice, however, that things get muddled. Perhaps because there are so many travelers from the United States and the continent, Irish people have become used to the confusion. After observing people walking for many years, I have concluded that there is no single answer to which side of the path one should walk. When walking, people tend to spy each other from as far as a hundred yards apart and begin to discern and signal which side of the path they will be using, often without eye contact.  

On the western outskirts of Mullingar, there is a small cross commemorating the life of Mary Walker, a 32-year old woman who died in 1909. Mary, an employee at the local post office, had been on an afternoon walk along the canal, a popular pastime even in the early twentieth century. She was the victim of a sensational and violent murder. The story gripped Mullingar and Ireland for several months and even made national headlines. A local man was later tried and executed for her murder. 

Approximately 100 meters east from the Kilpatrick bridge, I spied a wooden cross located inside a stone wall on the opposite side of the canal. There was no immediate indication why this site was marked. I went to the bridge and crossed over to the other side. Walking back, at first, I did not see anything to suggest the meaning of the cross. I was getting ready to move on when at the last second, I saw a carved some sign set in the middle of the wall facing the canal. Plans, flowers and weeds had largely obscured it rendering it almost invisible from the path. The difficulty was that there was a substantial ravine between the path, perhaps four feet deep and two feet wide. A couple of the weeds had thorns on. Nevertheless, my curiosity compelled me to brave the ravine and have a look. Even at that it was difficult to hold my camera and simultaneously pull the plants back far enough to read the inscription. Finally, I worked out that the cross marked a cemetery where several victims of a cholera epidemic were buried. A minor discovery perhaps, but interesting. Then, I was confronted with the prospect of climbing out of the ravine to once again rejoin my walk. I struggled to crawl back up to the path just as a middle-aged woman on a white bike was passing. She slowed down and inquired, "Are you alright?" I thought to myself if I was not I am not sure she could have really helped me. Nevertheless, I cheerfully answered, "I am, thank you very much."

Harbour Bridge in Mullingar

The canal west of Mullingar contains a series of bridges, which give a wayfarer an opportunity for beautiful photographs. While it requires cyclists to dismount, the reflection of the bridges in the water, backed with the blue sky and greenery are beautiful sites that encourages me to keep walking. At Bellmount Bridge, I stopped to greet a West Highland Terrier whose owner seemed embarrassed that he had interrupted both of our walks.

I ended my outward bound western journey from Mullingar in the small village of Ballinea, which is not much more than a few houses and a local grocery along the side of the road. I went in to purchase a couple of biscuits (cookies) and a cup of coffee. The cashier told me that there was a table at the side of the shop “to take a load off” my feet for a while.  I shared the picnic table with a couple of cyclists, who looked to be in their mid-to-late thirties and were having a coffee and snacks as well. After a few minutes, we started chatting. They asked if I had walked out from Mullingar, which they estimated to be “a good walk.” They were postmen from Mullingar, one of them had a bike jersey from An Post, the Irish postal service, and had decided to have a ride that morning. I inquired about how far they intended to go that day. “Ah,” said the guy not wearing the An Post gear, “This is it.” Which meant, like me, they had traveled five kilometers (about 3.2 miles) out and were going back after their coffee. They had a good laugh and said, “Sometimes we just put on the gear and drive out, so we can have a cup of coffee.”

The Room of Names

There is no escaping the primary memorial for the victims of the Holocaust in central Berlin: The Memorial for the Murdered Jews in Europe. It is direct and to the point. The Jews of Europe did not die as a result of war but were murdered. What happened was a deliberate act.

In a darkened room in the memorial, there are projectors illuminating the names, and when it is known the birth and death dates, of individual victims of National Socialism on the four walls. A commentator, in hushed tones, reads a short biography of the person named, first in German, then in English. There are six benches situated in the room where visitors can sit and contemplate on the lives of victims, and their own, while listening to these short biographies. Based on testimonies, many of the biographies are heartbreaking, short and incomplete; sometimes indicating that a person was probably present at a massacre and was never heard from again. It is difficult to imagine that about half the victims of the Holocaust have not, or unlikely ever to be, identified. At first glance this may seem to be odd or unexplainable; however, I consider what if I were among the 200 or so survivors of my current domicile of roughly 10,000. What it must be like to overcome the trauma, and guilt, of such a cataclysmic event and then be burdened with the responsibility of remembering as many people as I could; piecing together details of their lives and recording their names and lives for posterity. It is little wonder that many of the victims are remain unknown.

Shopping in Dundee?

Navigating the pedestrian traffic in Edinburgh during rush hour can be challenging. Walking on North Bridge early one evening, I found myself behind two elderly women, each wearing rain coats, knee-length skirts, and scarves to protect their white hair, coiffed by an old-style permanent. I was enjoying the banter between the two about the best bus to take to Dundee, apparently there is good shopping there, when one of the women noticed me and apologized for being so slow. Although I indicated that I was in no hurry, she moved and stopped to let me pass. Meanwhile, her companion continued on blithely about buses and shopping, until she glanced to see that her companion was no longer beside her and then turned to see me. She soon joined the chorus of apologies. I was quite happy to walk behind, and ease drop on the conversation, but felt obliged to pass.