Driving on the Wrong Side (of the road)

All day I drove on the wrong side of the road. Don't just giggle; it was really tiring! I'd learned to drive in a manual stick shift, a Rambler with a bad clutch and a three on a tree (meaning, the shifter was on the steering column). It's like riding a bicycle: you never forget, they say. But I'd never shifted with my left hand (the sinister side). All day long, I'd drop my right hand when the Suzuki Spring was revving too high only to touch the door and feel disoriented. Driving on the left is okay, but you MUST end up there after every left turn, every  RGHT turn (which is even trickier), and most importantly after every roundabout. In nine hours I must've done 90 roundabouts, always in a state of apprehension and confusion. It's a bit of a lucky break to be in the outer or the inner ring and to come out where you ought to. It's like playing the lottery continuously. I never once looked up and saw the country (unless the scene would fit in my rearview mirror). The roads were mostly narrow and the little Irish village roads were wide enough just barefly for two small cars to pass each other. Don't ask me why, but I'm driving to the southwest coast of Ireland the next day. They say it's beautiful, but I'll never know if it is. I'll be driving!

Soda bread, Irish cheddar and soft cheeses, fresh local yogurt,--all these purchased at local village stores and eatern at a picnic table with rain threatenting. Old musty churches, Anglican and Catholic, with a guide that tells you she was baptised there long ago. Quaint village scenes on the River Nore, a white horse, a black lab, fish jumping, a fox in a field. Help me interpret these as dream signals. What does each figure mean?

Too tired to blog, too tired to hear Irish music last night. I appologize for no photos yet.