Travel By Peddler’s Wagon
We never got to Dingle. Maybe it was because we missed the boat from Wales. Maybe it was because we missed the plane at Heathrow. But I think it was because Bob just might have been the laziest horse in Ireland.
Driving a Gypsy peddler wagon around the Dingle Peninsula, you quickly catch on to your horse’s foibles. Bob, who hadn’t been on the road since the previous summer, still remembered the turn in to Mrs. Gleasure’s Annagh Farm; it was his usual first stop. But it was my contention that a day’s work for a horse consisted of a bit more than pulling a lightweight, rubber- tired wagon less than five miles over paved, level roads.
Mr. Slattery, of Slatttery’s Travel Agency in Tralee, had given us a map showing routes to explore, and camping spots where he had arranged with farmers to allow us to stay for about $5 U.S. per night. Mr. Slattery was a most accommodating man. We arrived late on the day we were to pick up our horse-drawn home. First, we missed the ship from Wales to Ireland. Then we arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport too late to board the plane to Cork. The airline people were sorry, but they couldn’t refund our money. What could we do? Well, we could pay some additional money and take the plane to Shannon in a few hours. Rather than lose a $300 airfare we went to Shannon, where we were able to catch a bus to Limerick. From there another bus went to Rathkeale, but there was nothing to Tralee where our $20-per-day caravan waited for us. Ireland is a small country, at 26,000 square miles half the size of Florida. Tralee seemed like Montana away. We phoned Mr. Slattery, who told us public carrier couldn’t get us there before some time the next afternoon. I said we would hitchhike.
Becky grew up in Bellingham, Washington, a small Pacific Northwest community. This was our first trip to Europe and hitchhiking was new to her. Being the better looking of the two of us, she stood by the roadside with her thumb out while I sat on our luggage. We got to Tralee two rides later, after a short trip to Grenada with a native of Ireland and a second lift from a Canadian father and daughter in their rental car. These two, after hearing our plight, took us right to Slattery’s Caravan Centre south of Tralee.
Mr. Slattery arranged for us to stay in our rented wagon that night. We mentioned that we hadn’t eaten and asked where we could buy some food. It was 6 p.m. and he had a school board meeting at seven, but said he could take us three miles to the nearest store if we didn’t spend a lot of time shopping. We shopped quickly for dinner and for the next morning’s breakfast. Back in our caravan, we piled on the covers and dreamed of the journey ahead.
