How To Catch an Irish Bus

Story and Photos by Garrett Owen

Edited by Mia Madonna

County Clare, Ireland

Bunnow, County Clare, is not where I was supposed to be. I needed to get the bus in Ennis to take me to the coastal town of Lahinch to surf on the temperate Irish shore. That Ennis bus was nearby, but I couldn’t say where. I got off at the wrong stop on the right bus. My phone was dying. The next bus to the coastal town was coming soon. I stood on the corner, the wrong corner, with my heavy backpack and an empty stomach under heavy, gray skies in between rainstorms. So, I started walking towards a roundabout bristling with signs. I walked on the curb, dodging cars, and reading posts that told me I was in the wrong place, but nothing more than that.  

So, I stood lost like a child, with my backpack that suddenly weighed more than I could carry, eyes wide, mouth open, looking for someone to tell me what to do, where to go, and that everything would be okay. Cars sped through the roundabout, and the sky grew darker.

Then, a car stopped. “Where ya headed,” called the driver. I stared at him. “Ya goin’ somewhere?” I blurted out the name of the bus station and asked for directions. “That’s far from here. Need a ride?” I thought about saying no. The lost child in me spoke and shakily said, “Yes, please.” I sat in the passenger seat on the wrong side of the car.

The driver was a man in his late fifties. He was a longshoreman type from central casting: bulky, bald, big-handed, boisterous—and he was as kind and understanding as an Irishman can be, which is to say, caring in a gruff, sarcastic way. I think his name was Rob.

“I’m trying to get to Lanhinch.”
“Well, you got off at the wrong stop. Glad I saw you.”  

“Yeah. And I can’t figure out how to get there.”
“No kidding. I’d say you couldn’t.”  

“Well, thank you for this, sir.”
“Oh, hell, nothin’ to it. You looked lost, ‘cuz you are. Happy to do it! Lahinch is great. You’ll like it out there. Had a friend that went out there all the time. He might be dead, but he went out there all the time.”   

View from the bus.

Rob dropped me off at the bus station. It was deserted. No one manned the office window. Not a bus driver or traveler could be found. No schedule was posted anywhere around the little station. Rob got out and looked around. “Know when yer next bus is?” he asked. I said that I thought I did. “Hang on,” he said. Rob took out his phone. “I gotta pal ah’mine who’s a bus driver. He’ll know.” I tried to reject his help in my Midwest way but he waved me off. “Ah, Paul,” he said over the phone. “How’re ya? Yeah, it’s Rob. What’s the craic? Yeah. Hey, I’m helping this American guy out….”   

Rob got off the phone with Paul. “He’s callin’ some people to figure out the schedule for ya.” I said he didn’t have to do that. “Ah, nah, it’s his day off, he can manage.” I felt a tremendous sense of guilt. Kindnesses delivered in lump sums always does that to me. I profusely thanked Rob. He waved me off in the same way I tried to wave off the initial help—an egoistic standoff of sorts. .  

Paul called back. Rob nodded his head, said ‘yeah’ and ‘okay’ and ‘grand’ a lot, thanked him, said “Yeah, okay, grand,” then hung up. “Yeah, the next bus should be around 2:30 p.m. That one’ll go to Lahinch.” 

I then barfed my thanks. I went on and on about how much it meant to me that I was able to meet him and that he would help me, and to thank Paul, and on and on. He waved it off. 

“Ah, nah,” he said, waving his hand and sauntering off. “Think nothin’ of it. It’s fine, fine. Now, I’ve got to be on my way. Yes, yer welcome. Sure, right. Have a safe trip in Lahinch. Cheers.”  

Rob drove off. I stood at the silent, empty bus station. The heavy, leaden sky was becoming a dingy white- either a deluge of thin rain or a relief from the wet. I found cover under a covered area and took a seat on the bench.  

The next bus to Lahinch was still an hour and a half off. No problem. This was going to work. I took my backpack off. I’d been saving a bottle of wine for when I got to Lahinch, but now was a better time to celebrate and make a toast to good fortune. 

I opened my bag, found my corkscrew, and lifted the bottle out. It was weighed next to nothing because it was completely empty. The cork was still in. The wax was intact. Horrified, I looked for the cause of this injustice. At the base of the bottle, a circular, jagged ring was where the concave glass of the bottom was supposed to be. I looked down in my backpack. Every article of clothing I had in there was stained with red wine and sandwiched between soggy pairs of underwear was the bottle’s broken bottom. 

One hour and twenty four minutes until the next bus.