The Wimpy American
 After Croagh Patrick, my knee began acting up.  The Slough of Despond didn't do it
any good so, by the third hike, I found I needed to take a day off.  What a wuss!
    

Croagh Patrick, the mountain that did me in.

  

  

  
Rather than hike, I hired a taxi to take me into Westport, a nice little tourist town.

  

When I arrived, it was, surprise, surprise, raining hard with fierce winds.  I was only going shopping and sightseeing, my companions were out on another hike.  They told me the weather in the early part of the day was "quite bracing."

  

  

  
Eventually, the sun came out, and with it
a ton of tourists.

  

Shopping in Ireland, a lot like shopping
here in the States.

  

   

  

  
After I got tired of dodging cars and being
jostled, I left Westport and returned to the
Sheebeen Pub, which was conveniently near
the B&B we were staying at.  A few of us
made this our headquarters.

  

Journal Excerpt:  5:55 PM – Thoughts on Ireland
     There appears to be no clean water in Ireland.  The River Shannon, as it courses through Limerick, is little more than a trough of brown sludge with a horrific stench.  The ocean here in Westport, as it ebbs and flows across the tidal pools, is likewise brown and murky, giving off an unpleasant odor with just a hint of salt smell.  The rivulets and streams we have encountered hiking—and they have been numerous—have all, thanks to the peat and tons of sheep dung on the ground, been the color of extremely potent tea.
     There appears to be no dry land in Ireland, either.  Even an inviting meadow is, in reality, a soggy morass of weeds and muck just lying in wait for someone foolish enough to attempt a crossing.

  

         
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