Travels In Ireland, Part 1-A Night in Cork

"David, me lad, I don't know who this Connor is you've been calling for, I'm afraid you must have the wrong number."

Though spoken in a lyrical brogue, this sentence hit me hard.  My Irish adventure had taken a sudden turn.  Just that morning, I had been pedaling along the cliffs of the Dingle Peninsula, taking in the sweeping views of lush green hills rolling into the rocky sea.  My legs were starting to feel the effect of the twenty-mile bike ride followed by being cramped on the train ride to Cork.  I was ready for a late dinner, a pint, and a comfortable bed.  Apparently that was going to have to wait while I tracked down Connor.

Once I had finally mastered the pay phone enough to call back to the States, I explained to my mother how for the past four days I had been leaving a stranger voicemails, updating him on my progress around the Emerald Isle and my expected arrival time in Cork.  Half an hour later, I had a new number in hand for this friend of the family I was planning to stay with.

This time, armed with the correct number, I learned from Connor's elderly father that he was at a wedding clear on the other side of the country.  Granted, Ireland is fairly small, but that still posed problems, especially given that the father did not offer to come get me at the station.  I would need to catch up with Connor tomorrow, he stated matter-of-factly prior to disconnecting.

Legs tired, stomach grumbling, I considered my options.  By this time, it was already 11 p.m.  I consulted my Let's Go guide, phoned a few places nearby only to find they were all full.  The Cork train station was increasingly looking like the place I'd lay my weary head that night.  I figured that I'd acquaint myself with the place a bit and stretch my legs.  Then I saw a hostel across the street and decided to give it a try.

The night manager informed me that they, too, were full, as most places were likely to be at this hour.  I gave him a short version of my dilemma, and he took pity with my plight.  "Well, if you don't mind sleeping on floor..."

The floor of the hostel had to be a better place to sleep than the floor of the rail station, so I quickly accepted the deal.  He led me into a room with two bunk beds and indicated the floor between them.

I didn't have energy at this point to do much besides bundle up a sweatshirt to serve as a makeshift pillow, and then stretched myself out to sleep.

The bright light and cacophony of chatter in an unfamiliar language roused me from my uncomfortable slumber.  Needless to say, the four young men were rather surprised upon on their return from the pubs to see a disheveled stranger sprawled out on the floor of their room.  Fortunately, these surprised lads knew a bit more English than I did Swedish, and after a some sign language and simple talk they seemed to understand that I had not broken into their room. 

I don't know if Swedish travelers are generally friendly and agreeable, or if it was the Guinness they had been enjoying, but before long we were all chuckling about the strange situation.  There was only so much conversation possible with their two-dozen words of English, and my not knowing a word of Swedish.  So we soon turned out the lights and dreamed of our next day's adventures.