Coal Mine Museum and a Flat Tire

On the second day of our stay in Ireland, Saturday, the pouring rain put a damper on our plans for some hiking.  We decided to visit an old coal mine that was a 2-hour drive away, since Ben was studying geology at college and expressed an interest.  It was my turn to drive.  I gripped the steering wheel tensely as I tried to stay in the center of my lane on the narrow, winding Irish roads.  All three of my passengers complained about my driving-- they said I hugged the shoulder too tightly.  I was doing the best I could, but not adjusting well to driving on the left side of the road.  Funny, I had done it years ago in Scotland without much difficulty, but I suspect my eyesight wasn't that keen in 2013.  I finally got eyeglasses a month ago in March 2014 and can see roads and signs a lot better now.  No wonder the Irish rental car companies charge Americans such outrageous insurance costs.

And then there were the confounded Roundabouts!  In Ireland there are very few normal left turns at intersections.  Instead there are these circular roads with spoke roads coming out.  You drive around in this circle until you see the road you want and then you take a risk and follow the spoke.  Roundabouts are actually more efficient than timed traffic lights common in the US, and certainly genius compared to Michigan Lefts.  Even so, I was quite white-knuckled driving around them, always worried that I'd take the wrong spoke or that I'd turn into the wrong lane to see traffic barreling down at me.  It's easy for an American to become flustered with roundabouts.


Well, we got into the town of Boyle, and with all the traffic and roundabouts and I hit a curb rather hard, which pissed me off because I did not want fulfill the stereotype of the "woman driver" with my male heckling passengers.  I just knew what they were really thinking.  My passengers scolded me for hugging the edge of the road too tightly of course, but I continued on driving and eventually got us to the Arigna Mining Experience. 

After lunch at the coffee shop we took the tour, guided by a retired miner --  a real subject matter expert.  The mine began operations in the 1700's and finally closed its doors in 1990.  I regret we probably came across as ignorant, arrogant Americans.  The truth was, Jim, Ben and I hardly understood a word our guide said.  Prior to coming there, we had believed we were somewhat proficient at deciphering Irish dialects, but the Roscommon Coal Miner accent was too unfamiliar.  I suspect it would be a similar experience if an Irishman learned New York City speech and then was transported to a Mississippi Bayou. 

14 year-old Aaron however, understood it all.  You see, prior to going to Ireland I had advised him to watch some Irish videos on YouTube so that he could become familiar with the accent.  He took my advice to heart and apparently had become proficient at Irish speech.  I should have done the same, and spent some time on Irish Youtube instead of watching reruns of Deep Space Nine on Netflix.  Chief O'Brien's speech did me no good at Arigna.

Despite the language barrier, we learned one thing for sure:  You drill 18 meters in one direction and then 18 meters in the other.  Our guide repeated that phrase several times, very slowly, as if that was the key to understanding the entire mining operation.  We nodded politely every time he said it.  Despite the Tower of Babel experience, we had a lot of fun on the tour (we love rocks and caves in the Bakaitis family!)

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When we arrive back to the car we notice that the front drivers-side tire is low.  Thanks to me hitting the curb back there in Boyle.  We head back to the town and put air in the tire.  However, by the time we get there, the tire is flat.  Really, really flat.  We try filling it with air, but it won't hold.  Rain is pouring down and the temperature is dropping as dusk approaches. 

We find no spare tire in the trunk. Instead, there is this tire repair kit thing that blows air and latex into the tire. "Here," Jim says, handing me a compactly folded piece of paper, "would you please read the instructions and tell me how this thing works?"

After getting our tire inflated and treated with latex, we find out that the only tire vendor in town closes at 5pm on Saturday.  It is now 5:30. The only thing to do is to try to make it back to our cottage on Achill Isle.  We bow our heads as a family and offer a prayer that the tire will carry us home.  At first the prayer seems to go unheard, as the air doesn't stay long.  We call Enterprise Car Rental, who advises us to drive to Knock airport where, they say, we can exchange our rental car.  We arrive at Knock airport only to find that all of the car rental booths are closed.

It is now very dark and wet, our tire is flat again, and there are no hotels in sight.  We are in the middle of nowhere.  I am contemplating how it's going to be to spend a cold night in a car in the rural Irish Countryside, and what we are going to do the next morning.  I am not seeing the fun in this.

I am almost in tears by now.  I feel terrible.  "I am sorry," I say, "This is my fault.  I was a bad driver." (It takes a lot for me to admit I am a bad driver.  Ever!)

"Mom," says Ben, "None of us cares that we have a flat tire.  We're on vacation.  This is just another adventure.  It's just all the Tourist Experience... Don't worry. ..." 

"Yeah Mom," Aaron chimes in.  "It's OK.  We love you, Mom."  With that kind of optimism, my kids must be Irish.

We stop at a gas station, and Jim gets an inspiration to buy three cheap latex tire spray things.  He fills the tire up with more air and latex and we head off again towards our cottage.  He somehow knows the tire is sturdy enough to make it home.  We stop a few more times during our journey home to repeat the procedure.  Driving 40 mph (64 kph) or less the whole way, we arrive back to our cottage around 11pm.

Our prayer was answered, not by having the tire fixed, but by enlightening Jim's mind to know what to do.