There, I get off at Trinity College, and look at the garden. I don't feel much like museums, so I give the Book of Kells a pass, head into the adjacent shopping street (Grafton St), am surprised by the quality of the string quartet (cello inclusive) that's playing there for nickles and dimes (two euros buys me a beautiful smile from the female cellist), and complete my breakfast, with burgers and coffee at the Burger King.

Once on the next bus, I discover its downside: not all guides are equally understandable, and such a clearly speaking one as the elderly lady from the first, I will not have for the rest of that day. The elderly Irishman I get now, can be followed reasonably, but has a very irritating nasal sound. Never you mind.

Past a lot of stuff that doesn't interest me (Oscar Wilde's house and the likes), except for the Luas (of the many trains in and around Dublin the Luas is the newest - the word is Gaelic for 'speed' and this new line is to be opened the next morning, but its construction is still in full swing, I see, to my amusement) we arrive at St. Patrick's Cathedral, where, by now somewhat unhappy with my own acultural attitude, I contemplate entering to go and look at Jonathan Swift's grave, and therefore get off the bus - but I abandon this plan as soon as I see one has to pay to get in. I don't want to that badly.



Waiting for the next bus, I enjoy the park beside the church. Then I finally find out where the bars are, as we drive past Temple Bar, and it turns out I've found a better guide, this time. This one is even more incomprehensible, but he knows what his passengers want very well. So he tells us that most bars are here, but between breaths lets us know that there are better places.

Tips like those, of his, turn out to be worth a lot. But this, I learn later on. First, we drive through the Guinness brewery. Through? Yup, 'cause its a town of its own. Enormous thing, off which, traditionally speaking, half of Dublin lives. Guinness even provides meals for retired ex-employees, in the company restaurant, provided that those pensioners make it up the stairs. The inside tour, I skip, because its too crowded and expensive to my liking (I have, after all, just become independent, so I'm a lot more careful with the money).

Back across the Liffy, we now move through Phoenix Park, to the residence of the Irish president (now: Mary McAleese). When that was still Mary Robinson, she ordered that there should always be a light on behind the leftmost window under the tympanum, by way of welcome home to "all those with Irish blood in their veins", mindful as she was of the enormous diaspora of the Irish (there are more Irish outside Ireland than in it) on account of, among other things, their great famine (salient detail: County Mayo, where I will begin walking two days from now, was one of the hardest hit areas at the time).

Beautiful gesture, the stuff our balking Zeelander could learn from. The president's residence, by the way, is located directly opposite the American embassy: one could, would the fences be absent, skateboard all the way from the one to the other along the respective driveways. The bond between both countries does not only show itself clearly in that - it can be felt in many things.

The same, strangely enough, goes for the love-hate relationship with the English. Take, for instance, Wellington's obelisk in that same Phoenix park. It really has been put there for the same duke (Arthur Wellesley) who beat Napoleon at Waterloo, and whom everybody knows as a Briton - but the man came from Dublin. The Irish, out of spite over his attitude twoards the Irish (although he was the one who granted O'Connel's wish for catholic emancipation) have made that obelisk 15 metres shorter than was originally intended. I mean.

Returned to town, we end up in O'Connel Street again (with, besides the statues, the aforementioned Spire, a large stainless steel work of art called 'The Stiletto in the Ghetto' by the Dubliners themselves, who have more nicknames for their statues: 'The tart with the cart', 'The dish with the fish' and 'The trollop with the scallops' for the statue of Molly Malone, and 'The time in the slime' for the clock, temporarily placed in the Liffy, that counted down towards the year 2000), where the last tip from the guide turns out to be a golden one.

In Brannigan's pub, following a refreshment round at the hostel, late in the afternoon, I namely then eat a late lunch that is indeed ex-cel-lent, for little money. That, following it, I arrive too late for the Jameson Distillery, as said, is a shame, but I don't mind - it was a pleasant walk there, and it gets better fast, through ensuing pastime in O'Shea's (very much reminds me of the pubs in Greenwich) and The Brazen Head (the oldest pub in Ireland), justly pointed out by the guide as the better pubs to visit. The Brazen Head in particular. Almost sad that I have no travelling companion, for the small rooms there (there are at least three of them, all outfitted with their own bar) and the courtyard, invite good conversation.

I don't have any there, but pleasant it is, nonetheless and for sure. And this also goes for the walk back. It leads through the area north of Dame St, via Temple Bar, where I don't venture inside because of the noisy crowds, but even before I pass by there, I have a dinner that again is a fine one, in Nepalese restaurant 'Monty's of Kathmandu', where I have kachela (raw minced lamb with garlic, ginger, koriander, pepper and salt, served with a glass of Jameson whiskey) and curry.



Past the bars, I then make my way back to the hostel, where I contentedly lay myself to rest - amidst a Russian family, who has taken the place of the Belgianettes, plus two places on the other side of the wall, and bivouacs in the room almost permanently (which almost nobody else does, since everyone ventures out).

Day 3
The next morning starts with packing, and a better breakfast. It appears that, in Ireland everything is entirely not quite like it is in England. Dublin is a kind of closely built up London, where the city park is not in the middle, but at the edge of town, and an Irish breakfast like this is... ...an English breakfast, but better. The bangers contain more bang than the English ones (they habitually consist of grease for at least fifty percent), the eggs taste fuller, the beans are more bean, and the bacon's less watery. What pleasant a country.

This impression remains intact as, at Bus Éireann's, I go to order a return fare to Castlebar. Only €18, for a trip that takes 5 hours, each direction!

No long queues, a most courteous young man behind the counter (I do wonder whether he's legally allowed to work, at his age), and noone jumping queue. I cannot avoid the impression that this busstation, with its departure-door-per-bus, tries, per square metre, to be the Schiphol it is not, but I am aboard the Irish version of the Greyhound in no time flat.

But then Ireland disappoints. Because I'd expected more, of the landscape in between that, the stopover and transfer in Athlone included, I watch as it rolls past me for five hours on end. More hills, in particular. It may of course be the case that I should go further to the north and south for that, but for the time being, I think it all looks like a more New Zealandish version of Sussex. A kind of Wairarapa. Which isn't the prettiest part of New Zealand.

But, it sure as heck ain't ugly. Nicely sloping green, with villages that look very Kiwi indeed, of which the cores then again are utterly British: neatly plastered buildings, rough farmer's existence around them, visibly more expensive villas interspersed among them, that all have a somewhat ruggish look too, though, because they're bits of cultivation amidst rough hilly landscape.

In Castlebar, subsequently, I get reacquainted with my own country's nature. There's no escaping it, most certainly not so within the marching world. I go from busstop to Tourist Information Office in the company of a fellow countryman-who-doesn't-realize-I-am, since he approaches me in English and I answer in too native a way. A kind of compliment, I shall look at it like. At the tourist information, which is closed, a lady at the hotel reservations desk across from it nonetheless manages to pinpoint, for me, exactly where enrolment takes place, and so I make my way to it with a Norwegian elderly lady, after I've translated for her.

That Norwegian lady proceeds to make my day. In the Welcome Inn, around the corner from the Tourist Information Office, where enrolment takes place, it turns out that, just as the Indonesian rooted female acquaintance of Peter Weij's explained to me in Diekirch, there is a dormitory that doesn't cost much, but that there is only 1 bed left to distribute, in it. The Norwegian lady, who's brought a tent along, then opts, because of my presence, for the campsite further up, and inquires whether she can rent a bike. "He'll probably want the one bed". I think she's an incredibly nice person, and that it is quite something.

Nevertheless, I count my blessings and claim that bed indeed. The alternative would have been a bed&breakfast, which generally cost 30 euros a night - now, I'm covered for 11 euros a night, albeit in a place, Lough Lannach Holiday Village, that is some one-and-a-half to two kilometres out of town. Mind you, the campsite is even further away.

When the lady at registration then explains the way there to me, an American lady in her forties pulls up, and tries to explain a shorter route to me. It is strongly advised against by the lady at the counter, on account of its complexity. I decide to go by her advice, at least for the first time.

I get lost, of course, so thankfully, along the way, I run into a friendly Irishman who's not only willing to show me the way, but also directs me to his car and, together with his equally friendly wife, gives me a ride to the Holiday Village. He turns out to have done quite a bit of walking around Europe himself, so this becomes a pleasant conversation.

Having said goodbye to him, I discover, to my joy, that the dormitory (Macalla Hall, normally meant and rentable for seminars, its walls full of whiteboards) is not only a spaceous, but comfortable one too - there's no army camp beds, but real mattresses. My fellow inhabitants haven't arrived yet, so it is totally quiet. The toilet block, next to the dorm, turns out to contain a room for the disabled, with a bath! Hurrah. An hour later, I reappear totally refreshed.

I've only just begun walking back to town, when a black Nissan Micra pulls to the curb beside me. When I remain unperturbed, an indignant "Hey!" rings out from the window. It's Marc Poelen, the German reservist I met, with Marco van Zijntergen, in Bern, last year. Or actually, the Dutchman-who-after-serving-in-the-Dutch-
army-and-the-Dutch-reserve-was-invited-to-take-up-service-in-the-
German-reserve-when-he-had-moved-to-Germany-on-account-of-his-
job. Big deal. He's having happy holidays in Ireland, with this march as centrepoint, with a fellow reservist, Bernd. On the lookout for a bed&breakfast he hasn't found one here, in Lough Lannach, yet. We agree to raise glasses as soon as possible, and I walk on, back to town.



Along the way, I gape at the factual Lough, situated just off the road. Gorgeous thing, with Patrick's Mount in the distance behind it, and there's an Irish cemetery next to it too, of the kind I know from Fjodor's photographs. That's better: Ireland begins to match my, admittedly high, expectations.

In the Welcome Inn, things are so calm that I decide to go and explore town.

I said it before, my country's nature is at a premium. There is no escaping it. I haven't turned more than two corners, or there's the face of Elisabeth Marquart-Scholtz, tearing by in front of a backpack. My heart rejoices, and falls into a fathomless abyss at the same time. "Marquart!" She smiles and greets me. A few minutes later, I run into her again, outside the Welcome Inn, on her way to her place of stay. "Damn, but it's hard to escape from you! Here's me thinking, let's go find some far-off mountain, but no..." She smiles again, and I melt. I suddenly turn into one of those tiny puddles of water on the pavement. Luckily, she doesn't notice. Four bars later, I enjoy great food at Cox's, and decide to, afterwards, make my way back to Lough Lannach via the alternative route the American lady proposed.

This almost goes awry. That road runs along a path by the river, which at first is easy to find, safe and beautiful, but is then interrupted by the shopping centre. Behind it, it continues, but definitely becomes ugly, because it runs along the back of the stores, where there's garbage piled up, and unsafe too - because below the bridge beyond which I have to get up to the road again, lanky layabouts reside. Some four youngsters of about nineteen, pissed out of their skulls, beercans in hand and soccershirts on.

I continue walking, cool as cucumber and bolt upright, and address them with "Good afternoon". Astounded, they mumble likewise in return. One of them tries nonetheless. "Nice hat!" "Thank you." "Can I have it?" "I think not." Nothing else happens, and I have the distinct impression that this has to do with my composure, and the para-wing on my lapel. Another of them does venture to sing the chorus to "These boots are made for walking" in my wake, to which I answer "Precisely" and then claw my way upwards, through the greenery.

Ends well, and I do find the respect that I was shown charming, as much as the fact that they're aware of the march at all.



Back in Lough Lannach Holiday Village my fellow dorm-occupants, a party of 14 Czechs, have arrived. The remaining bed, beside me, eventually is taken by an Indian-looking lady from Glasgow. I exchange some pleasantries (which is easier said than done, given that the Czechs speak nothing but Czech) and then head back to the Welcome Inn - for there is football watching to be done.

But first I report to the registration counter, where I recount my adventures to the same lady who originally advised against that alternative route to Lough Lannach. She insists I go to the Gardai (cops, the full name for the corps, 'Gard Siochana', is Gaelic for 'Guardians of the peace') to report the affair. But I talk her out of that, because I haven't even got a description on the four lads, and nothing happened. Then, to my regret, I watch Orange lose to Portugal 2-1, and thus get chucked out of the tournament. Rightly so, by the way, because Portugal plays better. Some drinking later, I lay myself to rest with mixed feelings about the day.

Day 4
The next morning, having established that the Irish Breakfast included in the price for the stay, is of exceptional quality here too, I run into that same short student shooter's association guy I also met in Viborg, last year, and in Diekirch. He sets off quite some time before I do, since he takes part in the 40 k roadmarch (which also exists in 12 and 20 k varieties). I've opted for the Ramble: 30 a day, straight through the bog, guides out front. Marquart turns out to have done so too. My kind of luck.

The walk starts with hornblowing by a German who, I must admit, does that quite nicely. Some babbling, through a megaphone, in hardly understandable English, follows, and then we set out, some 150 heads strong. I have never done an official march with so small a party. Nice. Some five kilometres worth of country roads later, just past the first rest, where lemonade is distributed at a crossroads, we leave the beaten track indeed. Before I know it I am, after another rest in a kind of wadi (makes one think of the Boer war, somewhat) toiling up a peat hill.



It all reminds me of the Hautes Fagnes, but there are signifcant differences: the clumps of peat are less high, between them there's no quick mud, but watery turf, and it isn't cold here. Wet, for sure, but not cold. Even on top of the hill (halfway, Schelden calls me for an atmospheric impression: "What are you doing?" "I'm walking up a hill here" "Where's Marquart?" "She's walking on this hill too" "Oh? How nice!" - yes Schelden, very nice, but I myself mostly find it surreal - "And you don't talk to eachother?" "No, Schelden, I'm trying to bug her as little as possible") it's windy, true, but it still doesn't get cold. Must be because of the warm gulfstream here: it remains 24 degrees. Quite enjoyable.



And on top, to our joy, the view is overpowering. The windmills can do little damage to it. They mar the landscape, certainly, but they aren't everywhere, and it is, after all, a smart idea, of the Irish, to have them. We proceed to walk among them for a bit, and that's overpowering too, since they are enormous things. Very large woosh. Meanwhile, it drizzles some, but due to the warmth, this is of little consequence.



For today, the hilltop we were just on turns out to be the highest point of the walk too: we go down quite bit, along an uneven, muddy rootpath through the peat (great fun), but after that we return to the Welcome Inn, by another five kilometres of country road. On this country road, my skinscrape, which after Diekirch, because of the MESA, did'nt really get a chance to heal, immediately plays up. To Marc's amusement, I therefore arrive at the Inn walking somewhat difficultly after all.



There, Marc, Bernd, myself and a lot of fello marchers happily hit the beer (besides Guinness, there's a Kilkenny-variety called Smithwick's on sale - it's from the Guinness-brewery too, but was first brewed in, of all places, Kilkenny), and the German hornblower proves to be a very good jazztrumpettist - but to, alas, be aware of that too. Still, it's a good thing he's here, because the lone bar guitarist who makes up the rest of the show, doesn't manage to overcome himself, nor to persuade any other spectator to play along.



With Bernd and Marc, I then have dinner at the local McDonald's. This, would you believe, turns out to be located right beside that same cemetery that I so prettily pictured yesterday afternoon. Well. It is somewhat realistic, of course. After the meal, we have a short, but pleasant conversation with a lady from Donegal, who has been visiting friends here for the day, with her little son, and is on her way back via the hamburgers.

Then, we prowl around the bars, but without much shocking ado. I'm reasonably convinced that this is minimally partly due to the fact that we avoid the bar-with-the-Dutchmen, full of small orange flags, like the plague. Not that we don't like socializing. Besides, over the course of the day, there's been loads of it. Because, as I said, the place is crawling with Dutchmen. Even the guides largely are, and besides them, there's people like the always cheerful Huissen, bald and serving soldier, whom I've grown used to on marches throughout Europe (but who, haha, didn't recognize me in Diekirch, probably because of my Soc.-uniform, whereupon I refreshed his memory), and the Indonesianesque lady from Diekirch, here with her whole family, as promised.

Not to mention that Brit, who approaches me like he's known me for years, and tells me that, being recently divorced from his wife (who wanted a change in her life after having lived with tree men for years on end), he's gone to live in Cyprus, in the home they'd originally intended for the both of them. Who is this man? I suspect he's Colin Hogarth, acquaintance from, amongst other things, the Wellingborough, but I'm uncertain and dare not ask... ...dumb, on my part, but better to wait then to offend someone, of course. Marc and Bernd eventually give me a ride 'home', and even offer to come and collect me the next morning, before the march, and drive me to the Welcome Inn. Great!

Day 5
This therefore then happens, after the breakfast shared with the Czechs and Israelis (for years now, at a lot of marches like this one, there's a group of singing Israelis, become notorious, with flags and musical instruments - I'd heard about them, but never actually met them myself; now, they turn out to be staying in Lough Lannach, and although I find them likable folk, I am glad they're doing the road march). At the Welcome Inn, a tradition is then born: Marc, Bernd and I withdraw, with a group of German soldiers also present, into the lobby of the hotel, to have coffee (ex-cel-lent coffee by the way; that instant in Dublin proves to have been a decoy, since, everywhere around here, the Irish prove to be very much aware of what coffe should taste like).



Fine start of what's to become a great day, albeit not a weatherwisely beautiful one. As, past the deserted farmhouses (there are many of them: ruins once left behind by emigrated Irishmen who never returned, and that haven't been reclaimed by family or third parties - I wonder if that does happen with the surrounding land) we make for the windmillpark again, the sky darkens. And as we pass the windmillpark by, leave the path and head into the hills, it starts to rain heavily.



A light drizzle at first, like the day before, but in buckets before too long. Add to that the two steep descents included in the course, one of them relatively short, which, however, at its foot, leads us straight through a stream, and a much longer one, which besides a strain on the ankles also produces grand vistas, and we're having lots of fun: today, I feel, the walking's begun.

Nice, all the more so since, today, we make more friends en route. For instance, Huissen suddenly stops me to press a hipflask of whiskey into my claw, I have a good conversation with a few girl guides, and we become acquainted with Rob, a big Rotterdammer, with fearsome tattoos (but also with wonderful tea, which he shares with us), who's doing his first march here. So far, he likes it a lot.

An enjoyable beerbash ensues, therefore, in the Welcome Inn afterwards (where, to his astonishment, I also buy Huissen a whiskey - "Well, if you give me whiskey, you get it back"). And, after a change of clothes in Macalla Hall, and great pub food in a bar on Main St. (there's fresh broccoli with it! Try finding that in England!), pleasant beerdrinking follows, in several bars, during which Bernd and I, in Cox's, are totally pissed up by Marc, with a multitude of oddly coloured rarities, and we end up, by closing time, in the pub next door (an enormous affair with multiple stories). There, I make myself utterly unbeloved with an old bag who, with her much younger friend, tries to put the make on us. She attempts, in much feigned manner, to come across as the intellectual chatelaine, but, like her friend, almost floats off her stool. This gets me into a mean mood.

So, as Marc relishingly puts up with the caresses of the younger lady, and Bernd looks at it all mesmerized, I explain to the older one that they're only any good to us if they are to Bernd, because we're trying to find Bernd a woman, and that we ourselves are really only looking for a quick fuck. Weeheehee! She immediately hits the ceiling, ends the conversation, much to the dismay of her younger companion ("He's only being honest!") and clears off. I split my sides laughing, but Marc hates me for it, because he's got to go without those tits on his shoulder now.

Nonetheless, we do happily carry on to Johnny McHale's pub, diagonally opposite the Welcome Inn, where we arrive just in time for the last orders. This pub was recommended to us by, would you believe, the old hag, and damn, she was right: we should have gone here much earlier. McHale's is a kind of Brazen Head, with little rooms, a centrally placed bar cutting through them, and even a small courtyard. Very cosy, small and different, because it used to be a grocery (the original counter is still there, opposite the bar). We decide to return here tomorrow.

Marc and Bernd again give me a ride to Lough Lannach, where, with the events of the night before my mind's eye, I fall asleep grinning contentedly.

Day 6
The next morning, having again picked up by Marc and Bernd, I again have coffee with them, and the German soldiers, in the Welcome Inn's lobby. Today promises to become an even better day than yesterday, the grapevine says: the weather's improving, and pretty surroundings are promised.

Both predictions turn out to be proven true entirely. Today it not only remains dry, but it even becomes largely sunny, in amidst the clouds. What in Zandvoort would be called a bad day, in Ireland is 'a nice summer's day'. And on that nice summer's day we do indeed get a splendid track to chew up. What I had hoped for in Austria, but did not get there, I get today: in line along a wildly cascading brook, clawing our way upwards over slippery stones and through sucking mud, passing under green mossed-over tree trunks, and past fuchsia growing in the wild (that's 'mild' for ya, climatewise), we eventually move steeply upward. Very steeply upward.



Having caught our breath atop the hill, we then proceed along its rim, and around it, to where we are suddenly feasted on the high point of today, which will later turn out to also be the high point of these Four Days' Walks: Windy Gap, a mountain saddle that's rather windy indeed, with a beautiful view of the beautiful Irish green of the lower plain, and the lakes in it. Ireland as I'd expected it, but which, thankfully, overwhelms me after all - and absolutely.



That Windy Gap is called 'Windy Gap' is explained to me, by the by, by Colin Hogarth, who indeed turns out to be so. I could kick myself. Of course. I should have known, because he had announced it. He told me, last year at the Wellingborough already, that he would go and be here this year, and he had even added that, because he had learned, from consulting the organisation here, that it would not be advisable to do so, because of the political connotations, he would not wear his Union Jack-suit here.



Good though, that that question mark has gone. And Marc, too, is having a great time up here: he saves the backpack of a fellow marcher, who simply forgets it after the rest, and scares the beejeebees out of some aged woman walkers with a toad he finds in the grass (there are loads of them, by the way). He does, by the by, treat the animal very well, because he keeps it out of the paws of a pushy youth, who definitely looks like he plans to do entirely different things with the animal, than admire it.



And speaking of admiring. We've hardly begun the descent into the valley, or I almost run into Liz. She addresses me, and I tell her I am not at all happy to see her (this, of course, is only half true, and absolutely overdone bravura). "Well!" "Yes well you know, women who don't care for me, I don't care for either." "Don't care for? Don't care for? Just because I don't want to have dinner with you?" "Precisely, women who don't care for me, I don't care for either. So I'm not at all pleased to run into you." "Well, can I help it that I like marching too?" "Ummm, no. No you can't, you're right there." Haha. I resolve to explain to her in greater depth what I mean, shortly, and Marc and I spurt downhill.



What comes next is a pleasant rest by a stream in the valley. Beyond that, the clambering's past, but there does follow a long trek along country roads, back to Castlebar. As we go along, Marc fulminates some about the lousy construction the mild Irish climate produces (most houses have their sewage and waterpiping on the outside, the walls are one stone thick and only painted, not plastered as well - this wouldn't happen in Holland and, in particular, Germany; but they are spacious mansions, all of them, and some inquiry teaches us that this is not because it is cheap to build them here: it often concerns money returned from abroad).

I thereafter have some long and excellent conversations with the Indonesianesque lady from Diekirch, who turns out to work for the Tax Department, at Schiphol, and is tasked there with identifying (il)legally imported plants and animals, and with Tingen, a soldier from Huissen's group, great guys, who treat me to whiskey again, shortly before. The spirit in which we arrive at the Welcome Inn is therefore high, the mood so good in fact that I let myself be tempted into singing 'Stand by your man', with the musicians present. I should never have done that, for it has, since the Hideho's, considerably faded from memory, and gets played in a totally different key too. My table companions are nevertheless amused by it, and things become jolly, with Marc, Bernd, Rob, his friend, and a German-Dutch couple that's at our table too. The woman even compliments me with my un-Dutch accent while singing. See, those are compliments you don't get every day.

Afterwards, a round of refreshment in the Holiday Village ensues, and that night, with Marc and Bernd, I again prowl the centre of town. This timek, we have dinner at the bar in Cox's, but find that, although the food in the restaurant upstairs is exquisite, the pub food here is the lesser of the stuff we had yesterday. But it is a nice place, and we have a grand time.



We decide to conclude the night, as we decided yesterday, in John McHale's pub. There, it's so crowded that we barely fit in (and it becomes even more crowded when the German trumpeteer and following enter, introducing the Costa Brava-sentiment to the premises - but thankfully, this company departs again soon). This doesn't kill joy though. It's all very sociable, despite the fact that I'm again set upon by that old hag! She feels I should apologize for yesterday.

I decline the invitation, and try to explain to her that she interpreted me wrongly anyway, because Marc and I were not so much wanting, for a quick fuck, since, as opposed to Bernd, we're not unspoken for (Marc has a very fresh Croatian girlfriend, and I may have none, but am occupied enough by the Belgian Tinneke, where the sending of text messages and email is concerned, the latter via a ridiculously cheap Internet-shop on Tucker St., from where I, by the by, also send an email to Liz, with the more in-depth explanation I'd resolved to give her), and that it was therefore all about Bernd. She doesn't get it at all, and slinks away again. Big deal.

Much more interesting is the company of two Irish General Practitionettes, Pauline and Mary, who walk along today and tomorrow, because it is their weekend (more Irish do, by the by, and so the pack of marchers was a lot larger, today already, than it was during the first two days). Pauline has the absolute hots for Marc's body, and doesn't hide the fact. I find this highly amusing, and also get on very well with Mary. Doesn't do much for Bernd, but you can't have it all (and Bernd has, moreover, today on the course, taken care of a somewhat heavy German soldier, who's having a rather hard time at this march, and is quite occupied by that).

Physically, nothing evolves between Pauline and Marc, of course, but it does make for some pleasant circling around eachother. And, with Mary, I have much better conversations than I did with the old bag - the sense of humour and intellectual stamina of both GP's, as compared to hers, is a relief.

By the time the pub closes we therefore leave it (with the ladies, who are given a ride home by Marc) in high spirits, looking forward to the next day.

Day 7
Which, if possible, turns out to be even better. Not in respect to the course, for the high point of that, as said, we've already had, but on account of the weather. It namely continues to visibly improve. Today is a warm one, and the clouds that are, when we set off after the coffee-in-the-lobby, still there at the beginning, slowly dissipate.



The course, by the way, is far from ugly, and continues a grand finale to boot, before the cooldown walk along the country roads: the 'Stepping Stones', grandiose touristic name for a couple of flat slabs in a wadable ford.

We're forewarned that the water is so high today, that a dry crossing is almost impossible - and a big thing is made of that crossing. The Dutch military find and use their opportunity to be helpful, and group themselves around the stones, as a carrying corridor. This is appreciated highly, by many.



But I think it's a load of bullshit. What pompous ado about a bit of water. And if this had been the first day, it would have been more understandable, but from here one only has to get to the finish. So I don't give it a moment's thought, and brutishly wade my way through it, along the dumbfounded swaying snake of people. I find the coolness of the river water, after almost two Four Day Marches, a blessing - and my coat remains dry too!

I do have to wait a long time on the far side, because Marc has been recruited by the Dutch, and Pauline and Mary try to get the most out of all the male attention, but I make good use of that time, through a short conversation with Marco Nab. Marco Nab, soldier, with his brother, Leon Nab, turns out to have an even larger collection of walking photos on the web than I do (although they don't write reports around them). We therefore exchange addresses, and then walk on.



At the last rest, which arrives after a last bit of hilling, the organisers, by megaphone, thank all and everyone, including ourselves, as marchers, and the Irish folk whose lands we have trampled on for four days. By now, it is sunny and hot, so we hardly notice those wet feet anymore (although the two blisters I got from the MESA are back since yesterday).



What follows is, thanks to the heat, an uncommonly hard bit of toiling along the country roads of County Mayo around Castlebar. Mary, meanwhile, gets chided mercilessly by an utterly cynical Marc, because she picked a flower (she calls it an orchid, but it doesn't look like one at all). I don't talk her out of her guilt complex, but do have good conversations with her, while walking.



Shortly before the finish, the festive joy is added to by an Irishman marching along, who treats us to Bushmill's (locally, but injustly, as far as I'm concerned, looked upon as a better whiskey than Jameson's) and afterwards, in the Welcome Inn (where I collect the really minute medal and pilfer an organisatory photo of Liz), the mood is excellent.

Not in the least because everybody made it. Of myself, I don't find that so surprising, for although I am blistered, skinscraped and tired, and therefore glad it's over, I cannot rank this march among the heavier in my, by now richly filled, marching history. This also goes for MArc, but there are people for whom this is a lot different. For instance, there's the German soldier, somewhat stout, who has had a pretty hard time, but has succesfully been talked to the finish by Bernd (great going, on Bernd's part) - and Rob the Rotterdammer, who thought it arduous, but has definitely been struck by the mean virus called marching mania. Splendid result, reason for merriness.

Moreover, the band, today, is expanded with a little girl playing tin whistle, who emotionally touches me deeply with that. Missed it the whole week long, but the plaintive sound of a well-played tin whistle is exactly what one thinks of when one hears 'Ireland'.



Great finish, of a beautiful walking week. Marc, Bernd, Pauline, Mary and I add a little extra by having dinner at 'Al Muretto', the, as far as I can tell, only Italian restaurant in Castlebar, and then we say goodbye to the ladies. With Bernd and Marc I then spend a little time in McHale's, before they drive me back to the Holiday Village, and then I warmly thank both gentlemen for their company and the transport supplied, and we too say our goodbyes.

Undoubtedly not for long, because you always run into those marching folk again.

Day 8
When, packed and all, I make for the city centre the next morning, I run into the lieutenant-colonel of that group of German soldiers, who has to leave earlier than the rest, and is therefore on his way to the railway station. That's not where I'm going, so I wish him a good journey and continue on my way, to the busstop on Main St.. That I can make that walk, with heavy weekend bag, without any problems, is a good sign, and absolutely the result of the relatively simple character of the past march, but I nonetheless worry about Nijmegen.

But then again, Nijmegen is another one-and-a-half weeks to go yet, and I haven't even returned home yet.



At the busstop, I run into the very same Norwegian lady who got me my place in Macalla Hall. I again thank her deeply for it. Back in Dublin, I change to the expressbus to the airport, where I get ample time to say goodbye to Ireland (and to by a bottle of Irish Mist for the neighbour who's taking care of the cat).

It's not only because of that, that I leave without melancholy: I had a good time, but I look forward to the peace and quiet of home.



Nevertheless, I fully enjoy the flight there (the ground stewardess, friendly here too, has given me a window seat again, albeit behind the wing this time), especially since, in London, I am again treated to wonderful views of, among other things, Hyde and Regent's Park, the Albert Hall and the adjacent Memorial - and after the transfer at Heathrow things get even better yet, because we not only fly low over Zandvoort and Kennemer Dunes National Park, but also (I drop my vodka over my pants for excitement) over my own home!



To go, where no Chielie has gone before - It's been a good experience, and I've acquired a new green ribbon to boot.

To your health, Chielie, excellent walking there. Nijmegen awaits.