by Sylvia A. Winters
I’m sitting in the port at Rosslare, drinking strong coffee after four hours on a coach and another four on the ferry, trying to sleep instead of throw up, trying not to swear at the teenage boys that kept running up and down the lounge and yelling at each other while everyone else was curled up on sofas with blankets or coats pulled over them.
There’s a strike on, the bus that would have taken me down to Cork is cancelled, so I’m waiting for my cousin to drive up to collect me. The train would take longer, seven hours to take me up to Dublin and back down again, for the price of €60.
I was hoping to see the sunrise over the ocean, but it was too cloudy for that. Still, the smell of sea air was nice, and there’s a childlike excitement that comes with travelling over water, watching the waves chop under you, salt on your palms and fingertips after holding onto the railings.
I’ve had maybe three hours of sleep, full of interruptions, but I’m here, in Ireland. This is my first time here, so I’m excited to see everything. I’m not sure what I’m expecting. Faeries gathering around ancient stones, maybe. Banshees wailing from the hilltops.
When it gets to 9, I’ll take a walk around Rosslare, although it seems a bit dreary from here. The main town is over the hill though, and I can’t see it from here. Perhaps it has more charm. Either way, at least it should have food.