A– and I left Ireland yesterday, after deciding that we’d had enough of Westport (actually, I think I could spend another two or three weeks in Westport quite happily, but there are other places that I wanted to go), and took a cab up through Northern Ireland to Larne, where we caught a ferry to Scotland. When we woke up in Westport, it was raining, and it hasn’t stopped yet. The sky was gray and it rained continuously throughout the day, sometimes heavily, sometimes lightly.

Northern Ireland was dreary. There was nothing there that I could identify as uniquely Irish. We did stop in one small town, Lisbourne, to ship back some books and clothing that we wanted to stop carrying around with us; and aside from the one or two people who spoke with an Irish accent, nothing seemed like it was Ireland. It felt like a nation that had been stripped of its character, and was shell-shocked from both that experience and from all the years of turmoil with Britain. We sped through Belfast and made it to Larne to catch the ferry.

While on the ferry we perused a tourist book that we’d found in the ferry waiting area. We discovered a town called Wigtown that we decided to visit by virtue of its eighteen or so bookstores, and its proximity to historical sites like castles and archaeological spots. Indeed, while driving here in the cab, we passed by a small stone circle (which was, of course, closed to the public because of the foot and mouth disease scare) and noted its historicity and archaeological interest. Then we arrived at a bed and breakfast and checked in for a day or two.

Of course, every Bed and Breakfast in the world is different. The Man of Aran on Inis Mór was a separate house located near the rocky beaches of Kilmurvey; the one I stayed at in Galway was a modern-style suburban home located near Salt Hill; and this one reminds me of one of the Victorian brownstones in New York or San Francisco. Like most of the B&B’s that I’ve encountered, it has a bathroom facility which is separate from the bedroom (very few places, I’ve discovered, have en suite facilities); the toilet and the bathtub are down the hall and around the corner, and the place is laid out like something out of a Dungeons and Dragons game. It’s quite charming, actually (as is the entire town, if you overlook the fact that it dies at about 6:00 p.m. every day). However, there is one difference: our bedroom has a reconditioned closet which is now a shower. So while A– went to take a shower in the main bathroom, I decided to take a shower in the closet — mostly so that I could say that I’ve taken a shower in a closet.

I’ve done most of the best thinking in my life while in the shower. This morning I reflected that even though I’m enjoying this trip (though I’m a bit intimidated by the fact that after today I’ll be on my own, since A– is going to Aberdeen on the north coast of Scotland while I’ll be hunting for Glasgow and Balnagowan Castle), my enjoyment is being darkened by the fact that I really miss Jennifer. I’ve seriously considered cutting my month-long trip short to fly home from Glasgow or Edinburgh or London instead of making my way over to Amsterdam via Belgium and France as I’d originally planned, a week or two early. I promised myself that I would not make this decision until Friday at the soonest; what I’ll probably wnd up doing, though, is postponing that decision until next Friday, since I do want to see Wales while I’m out here in the UK.

Besides, at this point, I have two missions in Scotland. First, my stepfather has received his "certificate of legitimacy" or membership or authenticity or something from the Scottish clan that his family descends from, so now I’m planning on hunting down the clan seat and visiting it. I’m not sure what I’ll do once I’m there; take pictures, of course, but perhaps I’ll also see if I can get a handshake from the lord of the castle.

My other mission involves the younger of my two sisters, C–, who is a big fan of the sadly late Douglas Adams. Because in Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, the character Ford Prefect purchased a towel from the department store Marks and Spencer, I promised C– that I would purchase one there for her as a memorial to Douglas Adams who died on Friday, May 11, of a heart attack at the surprisingly young age of only 49. My sister was very sad to hear the news (one of her best friends was apparently in tears when he’d heard the news) and I admit that I’m also sad about it; I love the Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (though I like the Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency books better).

I had the foresight to bring a towel along with me on this trip. Yesterday I attached the towel to the outside of my backpack out as a tribute to Douglas Adams; and I’ll probably do so again when I go up to Glasgow tomorrow. And if you don’t know why that is a fitting tribute, then you really need to go out and read the books. Go ahead, I’ll wait for you.

There, so now you understand that bringing a towel when you travel is probably one of the wisest things you can do. And even though I’m traveling by bus and by train and not hitchhiking, it seems smart for me to bring along a towel as well.