[diebitter]

This is an entry pmed me. Not sure if entrant wants to remain anonymous, but here it is:



CHEAP DIGS





Impoverished Scholar’s First Rule of Travel: For a college student on holiday, cheap is usually best. The exceptions are the vices: pay top dollar, ruble, euro, pound or yen for your cigarettes and beer, and everything else will take care of itself.



I’ve tried to live by the rule, and my efforts have led to some interesting consequences as I’ve wandered through Europe, well stocked with Camel Lights and Guinness, but otherwise unfed, unwashed, and (sometimes) unclothed.



The following is an example of the kind of mischief an itinerant student can land in if he’s determined to travel cheap...



I had hitchhiked from Dublin to Galway through a nasty storm. Storms are a huge help in catching a ride; when the rain is slanting hard into the windshield, even the most callous drivers can’t help feeling a twinge of sympathy at the sight of a bedraggled, dripping wayfarer humping a soggy backpack through the downpour. Sounds masochistic, I know, but it’s a companionable way to travel – and it beats bus fares by a country mile.



Galway is an extremely friendly town on the west coast of Ireland, brimming with college students, hospitable natives, and cozy pubs (does there exist a more irresistible combination? I think not!). I enjoyed the scene there for three or four nights until wanderlust set in again, whereupon I caught a ride out of town.



I wasn’t as lucky as on the way in. My driver, a charming old guy who thoroughly enjoyed recounting his exploits in a sport called ‘hurling,’ let me off a bit north of Ennis before he turned back west toward Killkee. I spent most of the rest of the day hoofing it to the nearest town, Kinvara – no storm, no ride (or “lift” as the Irish say). I was headed for Limerick but not on a deadline, so even so I wasn’t put out by the layover.



There was another reason I didn’t mind the delay. I had heard stories of a local site that I thought might be worth checking out; called the Burren, it was described to me as a rustic area filled with old megaliths, jutting hills, and impressive natural scenery. Also, the night before I had departed Galway, a half-drunk acquaintance had proclaimed over a pint that that the Burren might be the best day hike in all of Ireland. It had sounded pretty cool, so now that I found myself so close by, I decided to take a look.



In Kinvara, I arranged a room at a hostel and then located a nice pub with Guinness and good trad (traditional Irish music), and then I whiled away the rest of the evening in a pleasant haze.



The next morning I woke early, aspirined my headache, found a bike rental shop, and cheerfully pedaled off for a sunny day of exploration. At the trail marker that indicated the entrance to the Burren, I chained my bike to a young poplar and set off on foot along the thistle-encroached northbound path. A mile or two later, I wandered offtrail into the hills to the west, having met my third, and – I was determined – last fellow traveler. In my experience, the best touring is usually where there are the least tourists.



I’ll spare you several pages here of cataloguing all the wonders I stumbled onto in the Burren: stone circles, deserted old shanties, ruined churches and the like. If you’ve ever been there yourself, you’ll understand how easy it was to get distracted and lost. If not, you’ll just have to take my word for it.



Sometime around dusk, I turned around to head back to town, but nothing told me which way to walk in order to get there. Landmarks often look different from behind, unfortunately for me, and the shadows had already grown long. Not that I was concerned, of course; the trail would be somewhere east of me, and when I reached it, I could just head back south to find my rented bike.



With this in mind, I started walking. I think I had taken about three optimistic steps when I spotted a light not far off to my left, dim but promising. It glowed invitingly part way up the side of a wooded hill, a smidgen flickery but definitely not moving. Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and was on my way toward it. Having become well acquainted with Irish hospitality over the last few weeks, I had no doubt that I would be spending the night with a roof over my head – and likely without even paying for the privilege.



Not a hundred yards later, I came upon a narrow, neglected-looking path leading up the hill. I followed it, and shortly found myself at the door of a dilapidated but habitable little hut. I knocked at the door. To my surprise, it opened immediately, almost as if I had been expected.



The wizened old woman holding open the door was less than five feet tall, stooped and grizzled. She was also incredibly ugly, enough so that I briefly wondered why she wasn’t on exhibit someplace. Two beady little eyes – one crusted over with a milky old cataract – looked me over, then peered past me into the gloom from above an impossibly long nose, which to my revolted amazement, was graced by a horny, hair-adorned wart growing almost from the tip. Her blackened lips, pulled back in what might have been a smile, revealed earth-toned teeth as craggy as the surrounding hills. This was as foul-looking a crone as ever there was.



Hoping my disgust hadn’t shown itself too plainly, I started to make a lame excuse about coming to the wrong address, but the hag interrupted me in an incongruously sweet Irish voice, so musical and lilting it shocked me into silence.



“Nonsense, nonsense! Wander the Burren at this hour? Come in for a bit! I’ve had but few visitors since my dear son Shamus, bless his soul, passed.”



Slightly ashamed at my unkind initial reaction, I realized that this old woman must get awfully lonesome, living so isolated from her fellow man. Thinking I might be doing her as much of a favor as she was doing me, I allowed her to take my arm and usher me inside. All the while I berated myself for the thoughts of Black Annis that had risen in my mind when I first laid eyes on her.



By the light of a few candles and the fire in the hearth (over which a sturdy iron cauldron hung suspended), I saw that the hovel, if small, was comfortable. A wooden table and two chairs sat near the fireplace atop a worn gray throw rug. An unlit lantern stood beside a thick book that lay open on the tabletop. The simple room’s contents were rounded out by a rickety bookcase, a plump couch with tufts of stuffing coming out of a rip in the side, and two goggling human skulls which stared at me from atop the mantelpiece.



That’s exactly how I absorbed my surroundings, calmly like that. It took me a second to register the skulls. The hag had turned toward the couch, but now her head swiveled back around to regard me. The gesture called to mind thoughts of an ancient, predatory barn owl studying a doomed field mouse. She chuckled evilly and grinned a rictus grin.



I spun for the door but then froze, my motion arrested by a hideous gurgling sound which erupted from the cauldron hanging over the fire. The hag lurched toward it muttering something reproachful, then jabbed a bony finger into the steaming, bubbling liquid it contained – and then the focus of my entire being locked onto the two distinct clicks I heard behind me. I looked at the door, knowing beforehand what I would see, and of course my dread was confirmed. The exit had double locked itself behind me.



Terrified, I looked back at the witch, who had started eyeing me in a disconcertingly hungry sort of way.



“I don’t supposed you’d like to let me go?” I asked, in a quaking voice that I hoped at least sounded like it was quaking in a cool, rational way.



“I was thinking I’d rather eat ye,” said she, and all the sweetness had drained from her voice. What remained was a raspy Irish brogue that reminded me that I needed a cigarette, badly.



“Could we compromise?” I asked, realizing as I said it how ridiculous it must sound. What was she going to do, eat half of me?



“Hmm,” she hmmed. “Perhaps we can, just perhaps. Do ye know the riddle game?”



I swallowed thickly and nodded.



“Good. Maybe you’ll see the light of day anon, then. Here are the only terms I’ll brook: If ye ask me a riddle that I can’t solve, I’ll let ye go,” she said “But if I ask ye a riddle and ye can’t answer, well...” Menace crackled in the air as she spoke. “The consequences don’t really bear mention, do they?” Then she licked her lips with an evil gleam in her eye, and the effect on my psyche was almost worse than if she had just come right out and said it.



Thrilled at this (possibly brief) reprieve from being dined upon, I babbled my agreement. After a moment or two, my spirit rallied a bit, though to this day I have no idea how. It’s hard to drum up much optimism with the prospect of being eaten looming large on your short term horizon.



“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked. Despite everything my voice sounded better now. At least, I think it was less squeaky.



“I cook my food, young man. Ye’ll smoke soon enough.”



At these reassuring words, I took out a Camel and lit up.



With no further preamble, she said,

“Always do I follow ye

Until the darkest night,

Whereupon I’ll swallow ye

Until ye find the light.”



Paralyzed, all I could think of was what a stupid riddle this was to get eaten over. It was five minutes of sweating in that ill lit, claustrophobic little hut before the answer literally flashed before my eyes.



“Shadow!” I shouted, my life saved by the dancing firelight.



She looked disgruntled. This was not a pretty sight, and a soot covered window pane on the wall opposite her, cracked.



“Now ye ask,” she commanded.



Fear swept through me, and it was some time before I could think of anything. I’m good under pressure though – philosophy term papers do have their uses – and I finally said,

“I hold men before the law

But my twofold nature is my flaw:

Though the prisoner’s death is oft my end,

When he’s in the Tower I’m his best friend.”



She answered instantly, almost before I was finished talking, and I knew I’d have to do better than that if I was going to escape alive. “Rope”, she said, then followed with this:

“I hold king and serf and reeve

They’ve done no crime

But serve their time

In me, a prison they’ll not leave.”



I lit another smoke and thought about this for a while. Finally, I had an answer that I thought was suitably dark, and gave my response. “The grave.”



Again she looked unhappy and clutched her claw-like fingers, but she had to nod assent at last. Exhaling a cloud of smoke that glowed a dull blue in the firelight, I countered:

“My center can never be found, for though I seem round,

My edge is unwound, and so knows no bound.”



To my credit, she had to think about this for quite a while, which did wonders for my morale. When she finally responded, even though she had solved it correctly, I was a new man.



“Spiral.”



“Right,” I said boldly. “Ask another.”



She growled irritably at my show of courage, then said:

“Burned or bred or bled alone

Alive or dead or turned to stone

I do not pine for time my own

For though my killers won’t atone

They often make me feel at home.”



So much for my newfound confidence. I must have puzzled over this for half an hour before I had my epiphany. When I said, “Tree,” the witch merely shrugged and inclined her grotesque head slightly. She had obviously settled in for the long haul. Fearing she would become impatient, I offered the first thing that came to mind.

“I light the night

But I hide in bright light,

For in my quiet flight,

I abide not its sight.”



She snorted insultingly before answering, and again I knew that I had better start coming up with some tougher questions.



“Star,” she said, then asked this:

“Child of the sun,

I’m the thief of its light

When I come I bring darkness

And leaving leave night.”



My own riddle was interfering with this one, trying to merge with it in my mind. With effort, I cleared my thoughts, lit a cigarette, and the answer came to me.



“It’s twilight,” I announced.



“Damn college kids,” she snarled. Irritated that she somehow knew this about me, I asked a college riddle:

“A sideways look at infinity,

I am vastly less in entirety.”



Now it was she who had to think for a while, at least two or three cigs worth of thinking, with pauses in between. I was cheerfully puffing away at another Camel, trying to blow smoke rings actually, to shake her confidence – when she interrupted my thoughts of freedom, sadly, with the correct response.



“Eight, ye mean, the number eight.”



“Damn evil man-eating hags,” was my jaunty reply.



“Watch your tongue or I’ll have it out!” She shrilled at me. Her next riddle followed promptly:

“When I sing madly, grown men die.

When I sing sadly, women cry.

When I sing gladly, children fly.

I’m not a banshee, who am I?”



“A nasty old witch,” I almost said, but stopped myself just in time, biting off the angry reply. No doubt she would have used it as an excuse to eat me for a wrong answer.



It was the “children fly” part that gave me real trouble, but a chance cloud, shaped like a diamond and scudding low across the moon, caught my eye. It looked like nothing so much as a kite, and I suddenly had my answer.



“Wind!”



She looked even more peeved than before, so I gave her my next riddle quickly:

“I can be long of tooth or short, and this is my plight:

That which I chew never feeds me, but only dulls my bite.”



She ran her black tongue along her brown teeth, drooled a bit, and thought. She leaned back in her chair with a creak, thinking. She thought and thought, each minute giving me new hope. Finally, realization dawned in her eyes and I knew that she knew. “Saw,” she barked, then said,

“I flame and flicker, burn and die

And my birth and death both make folk cry.”



I naturally tried thinking of unpleasant things, but none of them seemed to fit. I pondered a long time, but nothing that fit would come to mind. She heaved herself up from her chair, and had begun waddling toward me like a giant, evil penguin when inspiration struck. She was using psychology against me.



“Sit down, woman!” I cried. “The answer’s love.”



Hatefully she stared at me, wanting to rend me limb from limb. Finally, quivering with effort at self-control, she said, “Ask me three more riddles in a row. If I guess all three, I win. If not, ye go free.”



I was terrified anew. I’m better at solving riddles than making them up. Besides, the fact that she had changed the rules of the game midstream made me doubt whether she would honor the result even if I did manage to stump her. Still, since she didn’t seem to be able (or at any rate willing) to eat me until the game was over, and because I knew I couldn’t get past the locked door without her help, I had no choice but to go along with her.



I said, under horrible pressure,

“Eyes that see not

Met ears that hear not

And battle was quickly brought.

It was quite a sad plight.

With a little foresight,

Each might have profited, in his own right.”



Smirking evilly, she said, “Potatoes and corn in the same field, you’re on about. Crop rotation would have helped them each grow.”



My heart sank. How the hell could she know about crop rotation? But there was nothing for it, so I asked my next riddle as gamely as I could.

“Old man, white hair, stony-faced, seated there.

His hardened heart, which lacks life’s flames

Will never move what’s in his veins.”



Her evil smirk deepening, she said, “A mountain, ore-veined, an’ capped with snow.”



Now I almost despaired. Two riddles down and one to go. I tried hard to come up with a good riddle, but could not. Lighting what I was sure would be the last Camel of my too-short life, I inhaled... and then, an idea struck me. Thank you Mister G., I thought, filled with sudden gratitude for a certain high-school English teacher of mine.



Trying not to shake with fear, I asked my final riddle.

“This thing all things devours:

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers.

Gnaws iron, bites steel,

Grinds hard stones to meal

Slays king, ruins town,

And beats high mountain down.”



The witch cackled hideously. “I’ve read it too, you young fool!” She cried with sadistic glee. “The answer is time.”



“Wrong!” I yelled, springing back away from her.



“What!?” She shouted, furious. “It’s ‘time!’”



And it was. At that moment, the first rays of dawn shined through the broken window onto the door, breaking the witch’s spell and the locks opened with a double snap. I bounded to the door, threw it open, and galloped down the path, sprinting toward the rising sun. In daylight, it took less than an hour to find my original trail and jog back to the bike. As I sat down on the seat and started pedaling back toward Kinvara, I turned back toward the Burren and quietly called out, “Corporate strip-mining.”



A distant howl of fury seemed to echo back to me from across the hills.



I still travel Europe when I have time in the summer, and I still love Ireland, but I’ve never been back to the Burren.



I may not ever make it back, in fact.



I admit it: cheap digs aren’t always best.