I bite into my scone as two Australian girls and Neeve head out to cycle to the cliffs.
They invite me but I say no, and I kind of regret it.
I was all set to drive three hours to Portmagee and see Skellig Michael (It's about a 40% chance I'd get to see it, they only land when the weather is good) and this is where the planning Paul and opportunistic Paul clash.
Neeve said something during breakfast, saying it's better to stay in one place and enjoy versus going from A to B because it becomes a blur. I find that starting to happen, and now I wish I stayed one more day in Doolin to enjoy and cycle and get to know these cool peeps.
But Skellig Michael calls, and that's why I'm here. Maybe in Doolin time stands still but on that remote island, time goes backwards. Monks lived there. Built steps up that sheer cliff of an island. To call it a safe haven is ironic.
I'm going. You can't stop me.
Not even a fairytale can keep me from going.
Goodbye Neeve. Goodbye Doolin. I leave my regrets at home.
We go south! I yell to no one in particular.
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