My flight was at 16.30. so leaving my house at 14.00 should leave me with sufficient time to check in, and have a coffee in the deeply unlovely Terminal 1 of Dublin Airport. However I hadn’t factored in how unreliable Dublin Bus can be.. The number 41(the airport bus) didn’t arrive at 14.15 as scheduled, nor 14.30. Instead I hopped on the 41C at 14.40. This chariot only takes you to the airport gate though. I ran the 20 minutes distance to the terminal building. The crowds were at pre-Covid levels. It was now 15.45. My gate was closing in 15 minutes. I’d never make it with that queue. The security guard pointed me in the direction of the Fast Track gate (who knew that such a thing existed?) which solved my dilemma. I sprinted to the gate for final call to London Stansted.
Non-essential travel from Ireland was re-permitted from the end of July. Having bought a flight to Malaga on the Costa Del Sol earlier that year, before the date when restriction were eased, for the day after said restrictions were finally lifted was perfect timing. This would be my first trip to Malaga – though I’d been to sister Andalusian city of Seville en route to Morocco some years earlier. My preconception was that Malaga was a gateway to Torremolinos and Fuengirola and those massive sun holiday resorts so beloved by the Irish and our northern European neighbours.
Alhambra from the Mirador de San Nicolas
What hit me first as I disembarked the plane at 8pm was how hot it was. I’d forgotten to take into account the sweltering heat of southern Spain in summer. I should have known – I’d been to Greece and Malta during high season on previous travels. My lack of foresight was my own fault. I wasn’t worried – I was on holidays. I would struggle through. More concerning was my lack of digital Covid vaccine certificate. Having been fully vaccinated since May I should have received this soon to be compulsory travel pass. No such luck. I had the cardboard HSE card detailing my status but was worried it might be looked at askance by the Spanish authorities. There was nothing I could do about that now. I wasn’t going to delay my trip for the sake of a QR code.
Gibralfaro Castle
My hotel was in the centre of the surprisingly large city. My research indicated that Malaga was Spain’s sixth largest city with a population of 600,000 people. Good news. This wasn’t just a beach resort. Press 2 below for next page
By July of this year, international travel out of Dublin Airport remained banned (in theory) for all but essential purposes. Obviously a hastily muttered ‘funeral’ to any inquiring policeman would see you waved through security. I am not a convincing liar however, so I performed my usual clever trick – I flew from Belfast for my upcoming trip. My destination was the Scottish Highlands. The plan was to visit the city of Inverness to where you could get a direct flight. I contacted a Glaswegian friend M, and asked her if she had any recommendations for Inverness and the surrounding area.
‘When are you going?’ came her reply. I told her early July. To my astonishment she told me that she and her partner D had bought a camper van and were planning a camping holiday in the Highlands at the same time I was visiting. An offer of a tent and a seat in the van was made. This was a welcome development. Solo travel is very enjoyable, and I have become a veteran of such excursions. Traveling with friends is preferable, however. Shared experiences take the edge when it comes to travel.
My EasyJet flight was early morning from Belfast International. The thought of rising at 5am to catch a bus from Dublin filled me with horror. I booked a room in a youth hostel close to the Europa bus station in Belfast that would allow me to emerge from my crypt at a more humane 8.30am and reach the airport on time for my flight. I ignored the fact that I was at least twenty years older than everyone staying in the hostel – I had paid for a private room so I could close my door on the world.
The flight the next day was uneventful, short, and almost empty. The bus to Inverness town from the airport departed once an hour. The next scheduled service was in twenty minutes. I asked the driver if he was going to town. He said that he’d be back in the airport in twenty minutes but if I wanted to board the bus now that was fine. The airport shuttle was a back-and-forth service. I may as well see some of the Highlands. I hopped on the bus and went on my way. The landscape around Inverness is very like West Cork – very beautiful. Press 2 below for next page
As the second year of the pandemic draws to a close, I decided I would do a review of my year in foreign travel. Merely to record my traveling excursions during these strange times. I will do an account on a daily (or thereabouts) basis for yours (and my) amusement.
January to April this year were stationary of course. The lifting of lockdown last Christmas had a dreadful impact on Covid numbers, hospitalisations, and deaths, early in the year. Therefore, foreign travel was banned for all but essential purposes. These early months of the year also saw the rollout of the vaccination programme. As an individual in a high-risk category, I was fully vaccinated with both doses of the Moderna vaccine by May.
Travel was still not permitted though. From Dublin Airport I mean. Travel to Belfast from Dublin was fine. Travel from Belfast to London was also permitted. Being someone who willingly wears a mask, respects physical distancing; and maintains hand hygiene, I granted myself a pass. Not the wisest some might say. Selfish and self-centred others might declare, as they say to their partner / housemate sitting in their back garden. I had made the decision to ignore any lectures from people who didn’t live alone in a small apartment.
I received a text to tell me that I needed to present myself at the National Show Centre between the airport and Swords, on Sunday evening at 5.30pm, for my Covid vaccine booster. I was slightly disappointed by the news that my booster was going to be the Pfizer version. A worthy and effective vaccine no doubt, but it lacked Dolly Parton’s imprimatur of approval in the way that the Moderna vaccine did. I had been very pleased to receive the Moderna shots on my first trip on the vaccine merry-go-round. I wasn’t going to reject the Pfizer booster though. I’m careful and responsible about mask-wearing; physical distancing and hand hygiene already, but I am also willing to get injected with chemicals to stay healthy. Why wouldn’t I be? As a Type-1 diabetic since the age of four years old, I have taken an estimated 50,000 injections. Another one is no big deal.
My quarantine has ended and I am allowed back on the street.
What, pray tell, are you talking about, I hear you asking? Only that I caught Covid-19, and have spent the last fortnight coughing and spluttering in my home, hiding from the world to prevent me spreading the Plague to others.
Since the announcement, late last year, that vaccines against Covid-19 had been developed by several companies, it’s been a waiting game. A torturous waiting game.
The supply issues, along with the third wave of infections, along with the bitter recriminations against the pharmaceutical companies and governments, along with always missed targets, have meant that the entire world has been on tenterhooks. All the while our hair grew longer, and holes appeared in our socks, as the never-ending Level 5 lockdown continued. The challenges were inevitable – vaccinating a planet of seven billion people was never going to be an easy undertaking. The priority list – the older population in care homes and frontline healthcare workers excepted – changed week to week. News of corruption in vaccine rollout was headline news, as newspapers breathlessly reported on the scandal of a private hospital (that employs Leo Varadkar’s partner) vaccinating teachers at a private school, attended by the children of the CEO of the hospital. And we waited.
As this strangest of years draws to a close, I am putting finger to keypad one more time to describe my travels in the time of pandemic. My final jaunt of the year taken before the second lockdown was imposed was to Venice as September turned to October. I will preface this post with my usual disclaimer. While traveling to, and while in Venice, I observed all physical distancing, hand hygiene and mask-wearing guidelines. I observed the fourteen-day quarantine period upon my return to Ireland – which as I have previously mentioned is not that difficult when you live alone. I kept this excursion entirely to myself again, not wanting to hear people’s criticism or judgement of my decision to travel. The only person I was placing at risk by my choice was myself. For the sake of my sanity, I thought my decision was sound.
Each year over the Christmas and New Year period, the Abbey (Ireland’s national theatre) stages a show with an extended run. These productions tend to be crowd-pleasers which suits the time of year, and also act as slightly more adult counterparts to the insanity of the panto season. For the past three years I have attended – ‘Drama at Inish’ last year; ‘Come from away’ in 2018; and ‘Let the right one in’ in 2017. All were wonderful.
It was November 2019. I was sitting at my desk in the Wastelands pondering opportunities for foreign travel in 2020. I wanted to visit places that I had never previously travelled. Destinations in Europe that fit such a description were becoming scarce. With the exceptions of the Baltic countries of Latvia and Lithuania. I went online and booked a trip – flight into Riga on Thursday 9th March and then fly back from Vilnius on Tuesday. A two for one holiday. As March approached there were rumblings about coronavirus. It became very real in the middle of February flying back from Rome. The guards in haz-mat suits taking temperatures of people departing struck an ominous note. In early March I decided that the Plague made it unwise to travel. The air of the apocalypse hung heavy. It felt like Armageddon. I postponed my trip until late August.
If I survived then surely things would be back to normal by autumn. Little did I know. The August flights were not cancelled, and Covid related deaths and infections in Ireland had drastically reduced. I was willing to take the risk to make the trip. Unfortunately Latvia and Lithuania were not so lackadaisical. If I was I to travel I would be expected to self-isolate for fourteen days upon entry. Reluctantly I decided not to travel. Crossing the border between Latvia and Lithuania by bus might be tricky. I didn’t want to get into trouble with the Baltic authorities. Ryanair didn’t reimburse me. Of course they didn’t – it is Satan’s favourite airline. The flight was not cancelled therefore if I was going to be charged more than the flight originally cost if I were to postpone. With a heavy heart the Thursday of departure passed. I remained in Dublin.
The following week felt heavy. This pandemic seemed relentless and eternal. On Wednesday I was staring morosely out the window at the Luke Kelly statue, hissing at the emails from my work customer as they appeared in my inbox. I was idly entering destinations onto the ‘fare-finder’ section of the Ryanair website. This is the section that offers last minute deals. What was this – a Friday to Monday return flight to Barcelona cost 40 euros. I had no intention of going anywhere. Out of curiosity I opened booking.com. What was this – three nights in a pension in the Gothic Quarter for nineteen euros a night? In other words a three day trip to one of Europe’s most beautiful cities would cost under a hundred euros. Departure in thirty-six hours. As if in a daze I clicked on the ‘buy ticket’ button, giving a little yelp of terror as I did so.
midnightmurphy 