I was behind the clock all day: woke, late, feeling just that little bit under the weather, and what weather to be under. We didn’t get hit nearly as bad as the UK, but we’ve had some snow, snow that’s mostly been blanketing the Dublin Mountains. I feel like I’ve only gotten over being ill over the holidays, and can’t bear the thought of fighting yet another bug, one of many that are making the rounds.
At around 3, having returned home from having finally caught up with myself, after having conducted a couple of [good, if not excellent] interviews, I had a delicious lunch of rich tomato soup, complete with yummy little meatballs, and a couple of slices of grilled cheese.
And then the snow came down.
‘Down’ is a figure of speech. With the way the wind was blowing, it was racing to the ground in a horizontal fashion. I considered my newly warmed belly, the bug flitting around my bloodstream, and wondered if I’d just give it a miss tonight…
And then, as the weather often does here, it changed in a heartbeat, and the sun broke out over Howth, and I donned my gear, packed my bag, put on an extra layer, fished out my shades [seriously], and headed for the bus.
A minor snarl of traffic at Talbot Street caused a flinch of panic, but I made it to bus the second in good time. I read my sister’s Facebook ’25 Things You Don’t Know About Me’, on my Blackberry, and pulled up my hood as the wind picked up, the sun became smothered in clouds, and the rain started coming down.
And then the phone rang.
It was Paul, from the yard, checking to see was I already on my way? And if not, well, people had been having trouble all day long, getting up the centre, and did I want to come tomorrow instead?
Now, I do realise that the equetrian centre in indeed in the Dublin Mountains, the only place round these parts that is in fact still playing host to this unusual outbreak of the white stuff. Part of me had already thought about trying to switch my nightly lesson. Another part of me, the intelligent part, the part that exists above this seemingly unerring need to ride a horse, was twigging the fact that bus the second, the route of which is largely in the Dublin Mountains, was already fifteen minutes late.
And yet there’s that part of be that operates, if you want to be judgmental about it, waaaaay below the level of common sense I demonstrate in all other areas of my life, that wanted to just get on the damn bus — whenever it showed up — and take my chances.
But it was not to be. It simply didn’t make sense. They weren’t going to keep the whole place open just because I showed up, and the notion of having to make my way home after going all the way out there was horrifying.
So I said yes, tomorrow at 7 would be fine, and trudged back to bus the first in a daze of confusion and disbelief.
Two hours to the second after I had left my flat, I was back in the door still gobsmacked with disbelief. The rain is now lashing against my many windows, as if Dublin was a car and God was washing it. I sit here and write, and still can’t believe.
Horseriding was cancelled.