Percy French famously wrote a song about his difficulties trying to "go railing from Ennis right down to Kilkee".
He was writing about travel in the 19th century - and if I remember correctly, he was pleasantly scathing about it. I wonder, however, what he would have made of going bussing, then railing, then taxiing from Arklow to Westport in the 21st century? How long do you think that should take? Five-and-a-half, maybe six hours? It took me 15 hours recently, and then some.
I set out from my home at 9 a.m. to catch the 9.40 bus from Arklow to Busáras in Dublin, arriving at the stop with 10 minutes to spare. No bus. I mean, not at all; it simply never arrived. After waiting an hour beyond the departure time, with at least six other despairing would-be passengers, I returned home for an early lunch, my connection at Heuston Station well and truly missed.
Take the train, I assured myself. Trains are always reliable, and never get stuck in traffic, unlike buses. So, up to Arklow station for the three o'clock train, which would get me to Connolly Station with over an hour to make the next Westport train at Heuston, the one leaving at 5.50 p.m.
Got to the station. No train. Something about engineers working on the line at Rathdrum. So, buses were provided instead, as far as Greystones. Off we went, via Bray. Bray? Yes, I thought that was odd too. At Greystones, we were put into a special waiting train, while beside us a DART moved off gracefully Dublinward, its passengers waving gleefully at us. Another wait, precious minutes passing. Eventually we got moving. As far as Sandymount. Oh, God! I had forgotten. Ireland was playing Cyprus at Lansdowne Road. Stopped again, this time for 20 agonising minutes.
By the time Pearse Station appeared on the horizon, my second connection, the aforementioned 5.50 p.m. to Westport from Heuston, was a lost cause. But, bloody-minded, I pressed on. If the bus never appeared, and the train was dead late, I reasoned, maybe the Westport train would be late too, and I might be able to catch it after all? Not a chance. When I got to Heuston by 10 minutes past six, I was told it had departed promptly at 5.50, dead on time. Must have known I was coming.
Facing the drastic prospect of a trek back to Arklow that evening, I decided to vent my exasperation and exasperation and ventured a complaint, which was really little more than a desperate plea for sympathy.
I was unprepared for the response. Iarnród Éireann at its most magnificent. God, or at least His representative at Heuston Station, appeared on the scene, and told my disbelieving ears that he would put me on the 6.35 p.m. train to Galway, and that I was to get out at Athlone where a taxi -
a taxi! - would complete my journey to Westport, all at Iarnród Éireann's expense!
I couldn't believe my ears. I thought service like this had gone down with the Titanic.
So, off to Galway I went on the 6.35. Or, rather, the 6.50, which it turned out to be. Then we stopped in a field somewhere outside Naas for 20 minutes. Moving off again at about 7.30, we got as far as the middle of another field, this one outside Tullamore, where we stopped again, this time for at least 40 minutes. My newly found confidence in the national rail carrier was taking a severe battering as I wondered if the taxi would wait.
But (will wonders never cease?) when we did eventually pull into Athlone at about 9.30, there it was waiting for me.
At last, I thought. Saturday night traffic in Connacht shouldn't be too heavy; we should make it to Westport by 11, anyway, early enough to have a cup of Ovaltine with my ever-patient hosts.
But I hadn't reckoned with my imaginative taxi driver. The road from Athlone to Westport is pretty straightforward, down the N60 all the way, via Roscommon, Castlerea, Claremorris, Castlebar and on to Westport. But my driver was having none of it. At Roscommon, we turned south and headed for Co Galway, via tiny country roads. Where exactly we went I do not know, but I remember that Glenamaddy, Williamstown and Ballinlough all featured on the itinerary at some stage.
At Ballinlough, instead of turning left on the N60, we turned right, back towards Athlone. At Castlerea, it was time for a trip north. This time, I got a tour of Kiltimagh, Knock (the basilica looming up out of the fog), Charlestown, Swinford and Foxford. At one stage, we were actually headed for Sligo! No, dear reader, I'm not making this up.
It was the signs for Sligo that finally made me put my foot down, albeit cautiously. After all, I was with a strange man in a strange car in the middle of a part of the country I didn't know at all well.
He agreed that the Sligo option was not really realistic, and we did a U-turn, heading at last for Castlebar, and my destination.
Well, we got there eventually, circa midnight.
At least I now know what Iarnród Éireann's motto means: we're not there yet, but we're getting there. . .