Swansea. Last Premier Inn breakfast. They're good, Premier Inn breakfasts, providing you choose wisely. I'll miss them.

And then we were off, on the first stage of what we knew was going to be a long day.

Stage 1: Take the train to Fishguard  




Stage 2: Find a way to while away four hours (with your backpack) in Fishguard

This is always the tricky bit. We could, admittedly, have caught a later train. But you never know what's going to happen to trains these days... You don't want to be down to the wire with your connection, especially when what you're connecting with is something infrequent like a ferry.

In these circumstances it's definitely better to get off at Fishguard, not Fishguard Harbour. Later, of course, you have to walk the stretch that the train would have taken you, but if you go all the way to Fishguard Harbour, there is literally nothing but the station and then the boat, whereas if you get off at Fishguard, you have cafes, a nice beach, and even a couple of dolphins playing around in the shallows, although you don't get a particularly good view of them.









Stage 3: Board your ferry to Rosslare

Right, this is the bit where I moan. So feel free to skip to the next section. But really, every Manx resident should be FORCED to take this Stena Line trip, because it makes our much maligned Steam Packet look REALLY, REALLY GOOD.

The text message said we could check in at 1130 (for the 1400 departure). Yeah, right, we thought... And sure enough, even by 1200, nothing was happening in the check-in department.

So we went out to sit on the railway station platform, the coolest, breeziest spot (have I mentioned it was HOT that day??).

We've not been there long when up bustles a ticket person: "You can check in now," he says. "And you can hand over your luggage, and go through to the cafe and duty-free shop." We perk up. Cafe? Always good.

So we check in. And are ushered through to a horribly hot, unventilated area where there aren't nearly enough seats for all the waiting foot passengers. The doors at the far end remain resolutely shut.

Time passes. And eventually they open. We swarm through, and hand over our baggage. But the bus that's supposed to take us to the boat (bus? to the boat? can't we walk?) is now full. And we're not allowed to stand outside, so we're herded back through the dreaded doors to swelter some more. Health and safety grounds are cited. Again, you have to wonder... H&S panics that you might be knocked over by non-existent traffic, but is unmoved by the fact that you'll likely die of heat stroke in their horrible holding space...

More time passes. But eventually you're boarding the bus. Which takes you onto the ferry. Only then do you get your cafe and duty-free shop, so you feel bamboozled.


There's a total lack of comfortable seating. On our Manx boats, we have airline-style seats in pleasant lounges. Here there are just low-backed seats arrayed around tables. You grab one, for lack of anything better. You go upstairs, to check you're not missing something. You're not. This is it.

Jeez...

So you buy some bits to eat. If you're not too tall, you can scrunch up and sleep a little. If you're tall, forget it.

But this too will pass... Three and a half hours later, you're again down on the vehicle deck, boarding the bus that will eventually transport you to the outside world.

I say "eventually", because the ferry bus first takes you on a magical mystery tour of the port, purely (or so it seemed to us) so that a cheery immigration official can board your vehicle, ask you whether you're all Irish, and get off again. One or two of us began on a tentative, no-not-Irish response, but the question was clearly rhetorical, because he really wasn't interested. Understandably: It is all the Common Travel Area, after all (the UK, Ireland, and the three Crown Dependencies). Quite why you have to wander round the port in your bus to undergo this formality, though, I'm not sure...

Any which way, you eventually find yourself back at the place where you started. From which point you can lumber over to the bus stop.

Stage 4: Catch the bus to Wexford

The bus? Why not the train? The train station, after all, is right by the port: You can see it. Ah, but the boat train is timed such that no foot passenger can ever catch it... Even if you hadn't been given your tour of the port, you could not have reached that train in time. You do get to watch it sliding quietly away, however...

We'd researched this, and were aware of what was going to happen. So we knew the bus would be the thing. Our only point of confusion was that the bus time at the bus stop was different from the bus time on the app (the app was right).

But gathered at the bus stop was a little knot of British Isles passengers with a range of other issues, plus two tremendously noble Irish women -- fellow-travellers -- who were gamely operating their app to field a variety of queries. One traveller had hoped to get the train, and then a connection to Waterford, where she was due to spend the night. Clearly, that wasn't going to happen. Train gone, no bus to Waterford, lots of phoning... Four of those waiting hadn't brought any euros. The bus doesn't take cards, and there's nowhere to get euros in the terminal... We subbed three of them, and the Irish women the fourth.

It was all a little fraught, but there was also a mirthful sense of camaraderie. The kind of thing you don't get when you're isolated in your car.

(These wonderful Irish travellers, by the way, also agreed that the ferry service had gone sadly downhill. It used, they said, to be a much bigger boat, and much more comfortable.)


Finally, the bus rolls up, and we all climb on. It's eclipse night. It doesn't get nearly as dark as I thought it would, but the light is very weird. On the way, we pass hoards of people with eclipse glasses. It's all a bit surreal.

Stage 5: Overnight in Wexford, and enjoy the town

Our accommodation was the unmanned kind. You're sent a code to get in, and you cross your fingers that everything works. It did. But outside, on our way out to fetch some beer (by now ESSENTIAL), we stopped to help an 81-year-old who was struggling a bit with the system. There's so much to be said for PEOPLE, I feel...

Anyway, beer, and bed.

Almost next door to the hotel, there's a wonderful place that does fantastic lattes and scrumptious acai bowls...


After that, you can enjoy Wexford for a bit:







Inevitably, however, you reach that tiresome bit of the day when you're out of your accommodation, but not yet on your next form of transport:



Stage 6: Take the train to Gorey

Zero problems here, I'm happy to say. You need a seat confirmation to get on, and the train was spacious, smooth-running, and on time.


And after that, all you have to do is walk to the house that you've borrowed from a friend.

Gorey (whose high street is pictured at the top) looks like a really pleasant, vibrant, ordinary little town, and we're looking forward to kicking back for a bit.